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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
AT  LOS  ANGELES 


tjMVK^SlTY  of  CALIFOKMlA 


CHILDHOOD, 

BOYHOOD, 

TOUTH. 


BY 


COUNT  LYOF  N.  TOLSTOI. 

TRANSLATED    FROM    THE    RUSSIAN 

BY 

ISABEL  F.   HAPGOGD. 


NEW  YORK : 
THGMAS    Y.    CRGWELL    &    CG., 


Copyright,  18S6, 
Вт  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO. 


10  0  8 

5  00 


PEEFAOE. 


Count  Ltof  Nikolaevitch  Tolstoi ^is  unquestionably  one 
of  the  most  interesting  personalities  of  the  period.  Any 
thing,  therefore,  which  can  add  to  our  knowledge  of  him  as 
a  man,  cannot  fail  to  be  welcome  to  those  who  have  already 
made  his  acquaintance  through  his  writings  on  religion,  and 
through  those  characters  in  his  novels  which  reflect  himself. 
These  Memoirs,  which  in  the  Russian  bear  no  common  title, 
are  of  particular  interest,  since  they  show  that  many  of  the 
author's  ideas  yf  thirty  years  ago  were  precisely  similar  to 
those  which  he  is  putting  in  practice  to-day  in  his  own  per- 
son. There  are  also  points  which  every  one  will  recognize 
as  having  been  true  of  himself  at  the  ages  herein  dealt  with. 
It  is  to  be  regretted  that  the  original  plan  has  not  been  car- 
ried out.  This  comprised  a  great  novel,  founded  on  the  rem- 
iniscences and  traditions  of  his  family.  The  first  instalment, 
"  Childhood,"  wa'^  written  while  he  was  in  the  Caucasus,  and 
publislied  in  1852  in  the  '' Contemporar}' ''  (Sovr'emennfk). 
The  last,  "Youth,"  was  written  after  the  conclusion  of 
the  Crimean  war,  in  1855  ;  "  Boyhood  "  having  preceded  it. 
"Childhood"  was  one  of  the  first  things  he  wi'ote ;  his 
"Cossacks,"  which  Turgeneff  admired  extremely,  having 
been  written  about  the  same  time,  though  it  was  not  printed 
until  long  afterwards.  The  most  important  of  his  other 
writings  are  already  before  the  public. 

That  the  Memoirs  reflect  the  man,  and  his  mental  and 
moral  youth,  there  can  be  no  doubt ;  but  they  do  not  strictly 


PREFACE. 

confoiTn  to  facts  in  other  respects,  and  therefore  merit  the 
titles  which  he  gave  them,  novels.  The  facts,  for  comparison, 
are  as  follows  :  — • 

Count  Tolstoi  was  born  Ang.  28,  1828,  in  the  village  of 
Yusnaya  Polyaua,  his  mother's  estate,  in  the  government 
of  Tula.  His  father.  Count  Nikolai  Hitch  Tolstoi,  was  a 
retired  colonel,  who  had  taken  part  in  the  campaigns  of  1812 
and  1813.  He  was  descended,  in  a  direct  line,  from  Count 
Fiotr  Andreevitch,  a  companion  of  Peter  the  Great.  His 
mother  was  Princess  Marya  Nikolaevna  Volkonskaya,  only 
daughter  of  Prince  Nikolai  Sergieevitch  Volkonsky.  His 
mother  died  in  1830,  before  he  was  two  3'ears  old.  His  edu- 
cation, as  well  as  that  of  his  three  elder  brothers,  Nikolai, 
Sergiei,  and  Dmitri,  and  of  his  younger  sister  Marya,  was 
undertaken,  after  the  death  of  his  mother,  by  a  distant 
relative  of  the  young  Count's,  Tatyana  Alexaudrovna  Yer- 
golskaya,  a  maiden  lady,  of  whom  a  very  warm  memory  is 
cherished  in  the  Tolstoi  family.  She  had  been  brought  up, 
being  an  orphan,  in  the  house  of  their  grandfather,  Count 
ИЗ'а  Andreevitch  Tolstoi. 

In  1837  the  Tolstoi  family,  which  had  lived  without  inter- 
mission in  the  country,  went  to  Moscow,  as  the  eldest  son 
was  about  to  enter  the  university.  The  children's  tutors  at 
that  time  wer^a  German  named  Fedor  Ivanovitch  Rossel, 
and,  after  their  removal  to  Moscow,  a  Frenchman  named 
Prosper  Saint-Thomas.  They  seem  to  be  the  persons  de- 
scribed in  these  Memoirs. 

Count  Lyof  Tolstoi  received  his  first  lessons  in  French  and 
Russian  from  Tatyana  Alexaudrovna  Yergolskaya  and  his 
paternal  aunt.  Countess  Alexandra  Ilinitchna  Osten-Saken, 
who  lived  in  her  brother's  house.  In  Moscow  tutors  came 
to  the  house,  in  addition  to  those  above  mentioned. 

In  1837  the  father  died  suddenly,  and  his  affairs  turned 
out  to  be  in  great  disorder.  The  Countess  of  Osteu-Saken 
was  appointed  the  guardian  of  the  childi'eu.     For  the  sake 


PREFACE.  Т 

of  economy  it  was  decided  to  1еал^е  the  two  elder  children  in 
Moscow,  and  to  take  the  other  three,  together  with  Tatyana 
Yergolskaya,  to  the  country.  Their  education  did  not  pro- 
ceed very  smoothly,  Sometimes  they  were  taught  by  (ier- 
man  tutors,  sometimes  by  Russian  seminarists,  none  of  wliom 
remained  long  in  the  house. 

In  18-iO  the  guardian  of  the  Tolstois,  the  Countess  of 
Osten-Saken,  died  ;  and  the  guardianship  devoh'ed  upon  an- 
other aunt  (also  a  sister  of  their  father) ,  Pelagic  Ilinitchna 
Yuschkova,  who  resided  in  Kazan  with  her  husband.  All 
the  young  Tolstois  were  taken  to  Kazan  in  1841  ;  and  even 
the  eldest  brother,  at  his  guardian's  request,  was  transferred 
from  the  University  of  Moscow  to  that  of  Kazan.  The 
younger  brothers  pursued  their  preparation  for  the  university 
at  Kazan.  Count  I,4;QX_Nikolaevitch  entered  the  university  in 
1843,  in  the  division  of  Oriental  languages,  but  remained 
only  a  year,  and  then  passed  to  the  department  of  1алу.  Here 
he  remained  two  years,  and  Avas  preparing  to  enter  the  third 
class  when  his  brothers  passed  their  final  examinations.  But 
when  the}^  had  finished,  and  prepared  to  set  out  for  the  coun- 
try. Count  Lyof  suddenly  made  up  his  mind  to  quit  the  uni- 
versity before  the  completion  of  his  course.  The  rector  and 
several  of  the  professors  endeavored  in  vain  to  dissuade  him  : 
his  resolution  was  taken,  and  at  eighteen  h^went  with  his 
brothers  to  Yasnaya  Polj'ana,  which  had  fallen  to  him  in  the 
division  of  his  father's  estate.  Here  he  lived,  almost  with- 
out intermission,  until  1851,  taking  only  an  occasional  peep 
at  Peterburg  and  Moscow.  It  is  not  known  whether  he 
wrote  any  thing  during  this  period,  or  what  fate  his  efforts 
met  with,  nor  when  the  desire  to  лvrite  first  came  to  him. 

In  1851  his  beloved  brother  Nikolai,  who  was  serving  in 
the  Caucasus,  came  home  on  leave,  and  spent  some  time 
in  the  country.  The  desire  to  be  with  his  beloved  brother,  and 
to  see  a  new  country  celebrated  by  Russian  poets,  induced 
Count  Lyof  to  quit  his  estate  for  the  Caucasus.     He  was  so 


VI  PREFACE. 

much  fascinated  by  the  originality  of  the  half-savage  life 
there,  and  the  magnificence  of  nature,  that  he  entered  the 
service  in  1851,  in  the  Junkers  corps,  in  the  same  battery 
where  his  brother  served.  Here,  for  the  first  time,  he  began 
to  write  (as  far  as  is  known)  in  the  form  of  a  novel ;  and 
these  Memoirs  were  the  first  work  which  he  planned.  Be- 
sides these  and  the  "Cossacks,"  he  also  wrote  at  this  time 
"The  Incursion"  {Nabyeg)  and  "The  Felling  of  the  For- 
est ' '  (Rubka  Lyesa) . 

It  is  probably  to  the  period  of  this  sojourn  in  the  Caucasus 
that  the  following  biographical  details,  related  by  the  Count 
to  a  friend  now  dead,  refer ;  and  they  show  us  some  sides 
of  the  young  Count's  character  in  a  strong  light.  Having 
lost  money  at  cards,  Count  Lyof  gave  his  property  over  to 
his  brother-in-law,  with  directions  to  pay  his  debts  from  the 
income,  and  to  allow  him  onh-  five  hundred  rubles  a  year 
to  subsist  on.  At  the  same  time  the  Count  gave  his  луоп! 
not  to  play  cards  any  more.  But  in  the  Caucasus  he  could 
not  resist  temptation  ;  he  began  to  play  again,  lost  all  he  had 
with  him,  and  ran  in  debt  to  the  extent  of  five  hundred 
rubles  silver,  for  which  he  gave  a  note  to  a  certain  K.  The 
note  fell  due,  but  the  Count  had  no  money  to  pay  it :  he 
dared  not  write  to  his  brother-in-law,  and  he  was  in  despair. 
He  was  living*ta  Tiflis  at  the  time,  where  he  had  passed  his 
examination  as  a  Junker.  He  could  not  sleep  at  night,  and 
tormented  himself  with  thinking  what  he  should  do.  He 
began  to  pray  from  the  very  depths  of  his  soul,  regarding 
his  prayer  as  a  test  of  the  power  of  faith.  He  prayed  as 
young  people  pray,  and  went  to  bed  in  a  state  of  composure. 
As  soon  as  he  was  awake  in  the  morning  he  was  handed  a 
packet  from  his  brother.  The  first  thing  he  saw  in  the 
packet  was  his  note,  torn  in  two.  His  brother  wrote,  from 
Tchetchen  :   "  Sado  (my  friend,  a  3'oung  Tchetchenetz,  and 

a  gambler)  won  your  note  from  Kn ,  and  brought  it  to  me, 

and  won't  take  any  money  from  my  brother  on  any  terms." 


PREFACE.  Vii 

Count  Tolstoi  took  part  in  all  tlie  expeditions  in  the  Cau- 
casus, enduring  all  hardships  on  the  same  footing  as  a  com- 
mon soldier,  and  remaining  there  until  1853.  It  was  here 
that  he  began  to  sketch  types  of  the  Russian  soldier  with  such 
wonderful  power  and  truth,  in  his  '•  Military  Tales  "  (  Voen- 
nnie  R((zskazui).  The  Crimean  war  had  barely  begun  when 
the  Count  was  transferred,  at  his  own  request,  to  the  army 
of  the  Danube,  where  he  took  part  in  the  campaign  of  1854, 
on  the  staff  of  Prince  Gortchakoff.  He  afterwards  went  to 
Sevastopol,  and  in  Ma^',  1855,  was  appointed  commander  of 
a  division.  After  the  storming  of  Sevastopol  he  was  sent  to 
Peterburg  as  a  courier ;  and  it  was  during  this  period,  be- 
tween 1853  and  1855,  that  he  wrote  "  Sevastopol  in  May," 
and  "  Sevastopol  in  December." 

At  the  close  of  the  campaign,  in  1855,  Count  Tolstoi  went 
on  the  retired  list,  and  lived  in  Moscow  or  Peterburg  in  win- 
ter, and  at  Yasnaya  Poh'ana  in  summer.  This  was  his  most 
fertile  literary  period.  "  Youth,"  "  Sevastopol  in  August," 
"Two  Hussars,"  "Three  Deaths,"  "  Family  Happiness," 
and  '  Polikuschka  "  were  written,  and  published  in  maga- 
zines at  this  time.  He  was  recognized  as  the  equal  of 
Turgeneff,  Gontcharoff,  Ostrovsky,  and  Pisemsky. 

The  agitation  in  connection  with  the  serfs  deeply  inter- 
ested him,  for  he  had  stood  very  near  the  people  all  his  life  ; 
and  he  began  to  occupy  himself  seriously,  both  in  theory  and 
practice,  with  the  question  of  schools  for  the  peasants,  which 
did  not  then  exist.  He  made  two  trips  abroad,  between 
1855  and  1861,  probably  to  study  this  subject. 

After  Feb.  19,  1861  (the  date  of  the  emancipation  of 
the  serfs),  Count  Tolstoi,  and  a  л-егу  few  other  landed 
proprietors,  settled  definitely  upon  their  estates,  and  lived 
there  for  a  long  time  uninterruptedly.  The  Count  was  pro- 
foundly conscious  of  his  duty  towards  his  people ;  he  was 
for  some  time  a  justice  of  the  peace  ;  took  an  ardent  interest 
in  common  schools  ;   and  even  began  the  publication  of  a 


viii  PREFACE. 

highly  original  pedagogical  journal,  called  "  Ynsnaj'a  Poly- 
ana."  In  it  he  presented  his  views  on  the  needs  of  popular 
education,  which  he  had  acquired  directl}'  from  life,  and  on 
matters  connected  with  the  schools.  He  also  dared  to 
express  very  serious  doulits  as  to  what  we  have  be'come 
accustomed  to  extol  under  the  pompous  titles  of  culture, 
civilization,  progress,  and  so  forth.  Count  Tolstoi  attacked 
these  questions  boldly,  set  them  forth  in  sharp  outlines,  and 
showed  himself  at  times  rather  paradoxical,  but  at  the  same 
time  produced  a  mass  of  facts  and  examples  m  the  highest 
degree  convincing  and  important,  which  were  drawn  directly 
from  the  life  of  the  people,  and  from  actual  observation  of 
peasant  cliildren. 

Progress,  according  to  his  ideas,  was  fitted  only  for  a 
small  section,  and  that  the  least  occupied  section,  of  society  ; 
and  he  opposed  it  as  a  distinct  evil  for  the  majorit}-,  for  the 
people  as  a  whole.  Against  the  blessings  of  culture  he  set 
the  blessings  of  nature,  of  forest,  of  wild  creatures,  and  of 
rivers ;  ph^^sical  development,  purity  of  morals,  and  so 
forth.  This  is  the  report  made  by  a  journalist  who  visited 
him  in  1802;  and  he  adds,  "It  seems  as  though  this  man 
lives  the  life  of  the  people,  shares  their  views  ;  that  he  is 
devoted  to  the  good  of  tlie  people  with  all  the  powers  of  his 
soul,  though  his  understanding  of  them  differs  from  that  of 
others.  The  proof  of  this  is  his  school,  and  the  children,  of 
whom  he  spoke  with  evident  affection,  praising  their  talents, 
their  quickness  of  comprehensiou,  their  artistic  feeling,  their 
moral  soundness,  iri  which  respects  they  are  far  in  advance 
of  the  children  in  other  classes  of  society." 

Shortly  after  this.  Count  Tolstoi  married  (1862)  Sophia 
Andi'eevna  Bers,  daughter  of  Andrei  Evstafievitch  Bers,  a 
doctor,  a  MoscoA'ian  by  birth,  and  a  graduate  of  the  University 
of  Moscow.  Her  mother  belonged  to  the  Isleneff  family, 
who  had  long  been  friends  of  the  Tolstoi  family,  find  whose 
large  village,  Krasnoe,  was  situated  not  far  from  Yasnaya 


PREFACE.  ix 

Polyana.  The  Isleneff  children  were  among  the  first  friends 
and  visitors  of  the  Tolstoi  household  in  the  country. 

After  his  marriage,  Count  Tolstoi  devoted  himself  wholly 
to  family  life,  which  had  constantly  been  his  ideal,  and  gave 
himself  up  more  fully  than  ever  to  his  village  \<\y\.  For 
many  years  he  published  nothing ;  and  it  was  only  towards 
the  end  of  the  ''  sixties  "  that  he  began  "  War  and  Peace  " 
in  the  "Russian  Messenger "  (Russky  Viestnik) ,  which  placed 
him  next  to  Pushkin,  and  higher  than  any  other  Russian 
literary  man.  Between  this  and  the  publication  in  the  same 
magazine  of  "Anna  Karenina,"  which  was  begun  in  1875, 
he  gave  nothing  to  the  world  but  some  primers  and  reading- 
books  for  common  schools,  and  an  article  on  the  Samara 
famine.  Since  the  appearance  of  "Anna  Karenina,"  he  has 
devoted  himself  to  the  consideration  of  purely  religious  ques- 
tions, and  their  application  to  life. 

These  details  are  derived  from  Polevoi's  "History  of  Rus- 
sian Literature,"  from  which  the  accompanying  portrait  of 
Count  Tolstoi  in  his  peasant's  smock  is  also  taken.  It  is  to 
be  hoped  that  he  will  return  to  literature,  as  Turgeneif  be- 
sought him  upon  his  death-bed  to  do,  and  that  he  will  at  some 
future  day  complete  these  Memoirs. 

THE  TRANSLATOR. 

Boston,  May  27,  1886. 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   TUTOR   KARL    IVANITCH. 


On  the  12th  of  August,  18 — ,  the  third  day  after  my 
birthday  when  I  had  attained  the  age_jDf  ten,  and  had  re- 
ceived such  wonderful  presents,  Karl  Ivaniteh  woke  me  at 
seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  by  striking  at  a  fly  directly 
al^ve  my  head,  with  a  flapper  made  of  sugar-paper  and  fas- 
tened to  a  stick.  He  did  it  so  awkwardly  that  he  entan- 
gled the  image  of  my  angel,  which  hung  upon  the  oaken 
hea(ll)oard  of  the  bed  ;  and  the  dead  fly  fell  straight  upon 
my  head.  I  thrust  my  nose  out  from  under  the  coverlet, 
stopped  the  image,  which  was  still  rocking,  with  my  hand, 
flung  the  dead  fly  on  the  floor,  and  regarded  Karl  Ivaniteh 
with  angr3'  although  sleepy  eyes.  But  attired  in  his  motley 
wadded  dressing-gown,  girded  with  a  belt  of  the  same 
material,  a  red  knitted  skull-cap  with  a  tassel,  and  soft 
goatskiu  shoes,  he  pursued  his  course  along  the  Avails,  catch- 
ing on  things  and  flapping  away. 

"  Suppose  I  am  little,"  I  thought,  "  why  should  he  worry 

me?     AVhy  doesn't  he   kill  the  flies  round  Yolodya's  bed? 

There  ai'e  quantities  of  them  there.     No  :  Volodj^a  is  older 

than  I ;  I  am  the  3'oungest  of  all ;   and  tliat  is  whj'  he  tor- 

^^ents  me.     He  thinks  of  nothing  else  in  life,"  I  whispered,. 

except   how    he  may  do   unpleasant   things   to  me.     He 

-lows  well  enough  that  he   has  waked   me   up  and  friglit- 

led  me  ;    but  he  pretends  not  to  see  it,  —  the  hateful  man  .' 

nd  his  dressing-gown,  and  his  cap,  and  his  tassel  —  how 

iiigusting  !  "  3 


4  CHILDHOOD. 

As  I  was  thus  mentally  exi)ressiiig  my  \'exation  with  Karl 
Ivauitch,  he  approached  his  own  bed,  glanced  at  the  watch 
which  hung  above  it  in  a  slipper  embroidered  with  glass 
beads,  hung  his  flapper  on  a  nail,  and  turned  towards  us, 
evidently  in  the  most  agreeable  frame  of  mind. 

"  Get  up,  children,  get  up.  It's  time !  Your  mother 
is  already  in  the  drawing-room!"^  he  cried  in  his  kindly 
German  voice  ;  then  he  came  over  to  me,  sat  down  at  my 
feet,  and  pulled  his  snuff-box  from  his  pocket.  I  pretended 
to  be  asleep.  First  Karl  Ivauitch  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
wiped  his  nose,  cracked  his  fingers,  and  then  turned  his 
attention  to  me.  He  began  to  tickle  my  heels,  laughing  the 
while.     "  Come,  come,  lazybones,"  he  said. 

Much  as  I  dreaded  tickling,  1  neither  spi'ang  out  of  bed 
nor  made  an}-  repl}',  but  buried  my  head  deeper  under  the 
pillow,  kicked  with  all  my  might,  and  used  every  effort  to 
keep  from  laughing. 

"■  How  good  he  is,  and  how  he  loves  us,  and  3'et  I  could 
think  so  badly  of  him  !  " 

I  was  vexed  at  myself  and  at  Karl  Ivauitch  ;  I  wanted  to 
laugh  and  to  cry  :  my  nerves  were  upset. 

'^  Oh,  let  me  alone,  Karl  Ivauitch  !  "  I  cried  with  tears  in 
my  eyes,  thrusting  my  head  out  from  beneath  the  pillow. 
Karl  Ivauitch  was  surprised  ;  he  left  my  soles  in  peace,  and 
began  quietly  to  inquire  what  was  the  matter  with  me  :  had 
I  had  a  bad  dream?  His  kind  German  face,  the  sympathy 
with  which  he  strove  to  divine  the  cause  of  my  tears,  caused 
them  to  flow  more  aJjundantly.  I  was  ashamed  ;  and  I  could 
not  understand  how,  a  moment  beforeV  I  had  been  unable 
to  love  Karl  Ivauitch,  and  had  thought  his  dressing-gown, 
cap,  and  tassel  disgusting :  now,  on  the  contrary,  the}'  all 
seemed  to  me  extremely  pleasing,  and  even  the  tassel  ap- 
peared a  plain  proof  of  his  goodness.  I  told  him  that  I 
was  crying  because  I  had  had  a  bad  dream,  —  I  thought 
mamma  was  dead,  and  they  were  carrying  her  away  to  bui'v 
her.  1  invented  all  this,  for  I  really  did  not  know  what  I 
had  been  dreaming  that  night ;  but  when  Karl  Ivauitch, 
touched  by  my  tale,  began  to  comfort  and  soothe  me,  it 
seemed  to  me  that  I  actually  had  seen  that  dreadful  vision, 
and  my  tears  flowed  from  another  cause. 

When  Karl  Ivanitch  left  me,  and,  sitting  up  in  bed.  I 
began  to  draw  ni}-  stockings  upon  my  little  legs,  my  tears 

1  IsjxxX  Ivanitch  gcuenilly  speaks  iu  German. 


CHILDHOOD.  5 

ceased  in  some  measure  ;  but  gloomy  thoughts  of  the  ficti- 
tious dream  did  not  leave  me.  Dyadka  ^  Nikolai  came  in,  -^ — 
a  small,  neat  little  man.  who  was  always  serious,  precise,  and 
respectful,  and  a  great  friend  of  Karl  lA'anitch.  He  brought 
our  clothes  and  shoes;  Volodya  had  boots,  but  I  still  had 
those  intolerable  slippers  with  ribbons.  I  was^  ashamed  to 
cxy_before  him  ;  besides,  the  morning  sun  was  shining  cheer- 
fully in  at  the  window,  and  Volodya  was  imitating  Marya^ 
Ivanovna  (my  sisters'  governess),  and  laughing  so  loudly 
ancTmerrily  as  he  stood  over  the  wash-basin,  that  oven  grave 
Nikolai,  with  towel  on  shoulder,  the  soap  in  one  hand,  and 
a  hand-basin  in  the  other,  smiled  and  said  : 

'^  Enough,  Vladimir  Petrovitch,  please  wash  3'ourself.'"     I 
became  quite  cheerful. 

"Are  you   nearly  ready?"    called  Karl   Ivanitch's  voice 
from  the  schoolroom. 

His  A'oice  was  stern,  and  had  no  longer  that  kindly  accent 
no'^   ^^^^    moved  me  to    tears.     In  the  schooli'oom  Karl 

-nitch  was  another  man :   he  was  the  tutor.     I  dressed 

ckly,  washed,  and  with  brush  in  hand,  still  smoothing  my 

t  hair,  I  appeared  at  his  call. 

Karl  Ivauitch,  with  spectacles  on  nose,  and  a  book  in  his 
^land,  was  sitting  in  his  usual  place,  between  the  door  and 
/the  window.  To  the  loft  of  the  door  were  two  shelves  of 
books:  one  was  ours — the  children's;  the  other  was  Karl 
Ivaniich's  particular  property.  On  ours  were  all  sorts  of 
books,  —  school-buoks  and  others  :  some  stood  upright,  others 
were  lying  down.  Only  two  big  volumes  of  "•  Histoire  des 
Voj'ages,"  in  red  bindings,  leaned  in  a  statel}'  way  against 
the  wall ;  then  came  long,  thick,  big,  and  little  books,  — 
covers  without  books,  and  books  without  сол-ers.  All  were 
piled  up  and  pushed  in  when  we  were  ordered  to  put  the 
library,  as  Karl  Ivauitch  called  this  shelf, щ  order  before  our 
pla^'-hour.  If  the  collection  of  books  on  his  private  shelf 
was  not  as  large  as  ours,  it  was  even  more  miscellaneous. 
I  remember  three  of  them,  —  a  German  pamphlet  on  the 
manuring  of  cal)bage-gardens,  without  a-  cover ;  one  volume 
of  the  history  of  the  "  Seven  Years  War,"  in  parchment^ 
burned  on  one  corner  ;  and  a  complete  course  of  hydrostatics. 
Karl  Ivauitch  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  reading, 
and  even  injured  his  eyesight  thereby  ;  but  he  never  read 
any  thing  except  these  bi^oks  and  "Tiie  Northern  Bee." 

1  ChilUieirt»  valeL. 


6  CHILDHOOD. 

Among  the  articles  which  Uiy  ou  Karl  Ivanitch's  shelf, 
was  one  which  recalls  him  to  me  more  than  all  the  rest.  It 
was  a  circle  of  cardboard  fixed  on  a  wooden  foot,  npon 
which  it  revolved  by  means  of  pegs.  Upon  this  circle  were 
pasted  pictures  representing  caricatures  of  some  gentleman 
and  a  wig-maker.  Karl  Ivanitch  pasted  very  well,  and  had 
himself  invented  and  manufactured  this  circle  in  order  to 
protect  his  weak  eyes  from  the  bright  light. 

I  seem  now  to  see  before  me  his  long  figure,  in  its  wadded 
dressing-gown,  and  the  red  cap  beneath  which  his  thin  gray 
hair  is  visible.  He  sits  beside  a  little  table,  upon  which  stands 
the  circle  with  the  wig-maker,  casting  its  shadow  upon  his  face  ; 
in  one  hand  he  holds  a  book,  the  other  rests  ou  the  arm  of  the 
chair  ;  beside  him  lies  his  watch,  with  the  huntsman  painted 
on  the  face,  his  checked  handkerchief,  his  round  black  snuff- 
box, his  green  spectacle-case,  and  the  snuffers  on  the  dish. 
All  this  lies  with  so  much  dignity  and  precision,  each  in  its 
proper  place,  that  one  might  conclude  from  this  orderiisesi-' 
alone  that  Karl  Ivanitch  has  a  pure  conscience  and  a  restful 
spirit. 

If  you  stole  up-stairs  on  tiptoe  to  the  schoolroom,  after 
running  al)ont  down-stairs  in  the  hall  as  much  as  you 
pleased,  behold  —  Karl  Ivanitch  , was  sitting  alone  in  his 
arm-chair,  reading  some  one  of  his  beloved  books,  with  a 
proud,  calm  expression  of  countenance.  Sometimes  I  found 
him  at  such  times  when  he  was  not  reading  :  his  spectacles 
had  dropped  down  on  his  big  aquiline  nose  ;  his  blue,  half- 
shut  -e^'es  'had  a  certain  peculiar  expression  ;  and  his  lips 
smiled  sadly.  All  was  quiet  in  the  room  :  his  even  breath- 
ing, and  the  ticking  of  the  hunter-adorned  watch,  alone  were 
audible. 

He  did  not  peijceive  me  ;  and  I  used  to  stand  in  the  door, 
and  think:  Pooi'wpoor  old  man!  There  are  many  of  us  ;  i 
we  play,  we  are  merry:  but  he  —  he  is  all  alone,  and  no  one' 
treats  iiim  kindly.  He  tells  the  truth,  when  he  says  he  is  anj 
orphan.  And  the  history  of  his  life  is  terrible  !  Iremembert 
that  he  related  it  to  Nikolai :  it  is  dreadful  to  be  in  his  situa- 
tion !  .And  it  made  one  so  sorry,  that  one  wanted  to  go  toll 
him,  take  his  hand,  and  say,  ''  Dear  Karl  Ivanitch!  "  Hel 
liked  to  have  me  say  that :  he  always  petted  me,  and  it  was! 
plaiq  that  he  was  touched. 

On  the  otiier  wall  hung  maps,  nearly  all  of  them  torn,' 
but  skilfully  repaired  by  the  hand  of  Karl  Ivanitch.     Ou  thei 


CniLDUOOD.  7 

third  wall,  in  the  midclle  of  which  Avas  the  door  leading  down 
stairs,  hung  two  rulers  :  one  was  all  hacked  up  —  that  луаз 
ours  ;  the  other  —  the  new  one  —  was  his  own  private  inler, 
and  employed  more  for  encouraging  us  than  for  ruling 
proper.  On  the  other  side  of  the  door  'was  a  blackboard, 
npou  which  our  grand  misdeeds  were  designated  by  circles, 
and  our  small  ones  by  crosses.  To  the  left  of  tlae  board 
was  the  corner  where  we  were  put  on  our  knees. 

How  well  I  remember  that  corner  !  I  remember  the  sto\-e- 
door,  and  the  slide  in  it,  and  the  noise  this  made  when  it 
was  turned.  You  would  kneel  and  kneel  in  that  corner  until 
your  knees  and  back  "ached,  and  you  would  think,  "Karl 
Ivauitch  has  forgotten  me  ;■  he  must  be  sitting  quietly  in  his 
soft  arm-chair,  and  reading  his  hydrostatics  :  and  how  is  it 
with  me?"  And  then  you  would  begin  to  hint  of  your 
existence,  to  softly  open  and  shut  the  damper,  or  pick  the 
plaster  from  the  wall ;  but  if  too  big  a  piece  suddenly  fell 
noisily  to  the  floor,  the  fright  alone  was  worse  than  the 
whole  punishment.  You  would  peep  round  at  Karl  Ivauitch  ; 
and  there  he  sat,  book  in  hand,  as  though  he  had  not  noticed 
any  thing. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room  stood  a  table,  covered  with  a 
ragged  black  oil-cloth,  beneath  which  the  edge,  hacked  in 
places  with  penknives,  was  visible  in  many  places.  Around 
the  table  stood  several  nnpainted  stools,  polished  with  long 
use.  The  last  wall  was  occupied  by  three  little  windows. 
This  was  the  view  which  was  had  from  them  : .  Directly  in 
front  of  the  windows  ran  the  road,  every  hollow,  pebble, 
and  rut  of  which  had  long  been  familiar  and  dear  to  me  ; 
beyond  the  road  was  a  close-trimmed  linden  alley,  behind 
which  the  wattled  fence  was  visible  here  and  there.  A  field 
could  be  seen  through  the  alley  ;  on  one  Jide  of  this  was  a 
threshing-floor,  on  the  other  a  wood  ;  the^uard's  little  cot- 
tage was  visible  in  the  distance.  To  the  right,  a  part  of  the 
terrace  could  be  seen,  upon  which  the  grown-up  people  gen- 
erally sat  before  dinner.  If  you  looked  in  that  direction 
while  Karl  Ivauitch  was  correcting  your  page  of  dictation, 
5^u  could  see  mamma's  black  head,  and  some  one's  back, 
and  hear  faint  sounds  of  conversation  and  laughter ;  and 
you  would  grow  vexed  that  you  could  not  be  there,  and 
think,  4wben  I  grow  up,  shall  I  stop  learning  lessons, 
and  sit,  not  over  conversations  forever,  but  always  with 
those  I  love?"     Vexation    increases   to  sorrow;    and   God 


8  CIIILDIIOOD. 

knows  why  and  what  з^оп  dream,  until  3'ou  hear  Karl  Ivauitch 
raging  over  your  mistakes. 

Karl  Ivauitch  took  oft'  his  dressing-gown,  put  on  his  lilue 
swallow-tailed  coat  with  humps  and  folds  upon  the  shoulders, 
arranged  his  necktie  before  the  glass,  and  led  us  down-stairs 
to  say  good-morning  to  mamma. 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER  II. 


Mamjia  was  sitting  in  the  parlor,  and  pouring  out  the 
tea :  in  one  hand  she  held  the  teapot,  in  the  other  the  faucet 
of  the  samovar,  from  which  the  water  flowed  over  the  top 
of  tlie  teapot  upon  the  tray  beneath.  But  though  she  was 
gazing  steadily  at  it,  she  did  not  perceive  it,  nor  that  we  had 
entered. 

So  many  memories  of  the  past  present  themselves  when 
one  tries  to  revive  in  fancy  the  features  of  a  beloved  being, 
that  one  A'iews  them  dimly  through  these  memories,  as 
through  tears.  These  are  the  tears  of  imagination.  When 
I  tr}'  to  recall  my  mother  as  she  was  at  that  time,  nothing 
appears  to  me  but  her  brown  ез-es,  which  always  expressed 
love  and  goodness  ;  the  mole  on  her  neck  a  little  lower  down 
than  the  spot  where  the  short  hairs  grow ;  her  white  embroid- 
ered collar;  her  cool,  soft  hand,  which  petted  me  so  often, 
and  which  I  so  often  kissed  :  but  her  image  as  a  whole 
escapes  me. 

To  the  left  of  the  di^-an  stood  the  old  English  grand  piano  ; 
and  before  the  piano  sat  my  dark-complexioned  sister  Liu- 
botchka,  playing  dementi's  studies  with  evident  effort,  and 
with  rosy  fingers  which  had  just  been  washed  in  cold  water. 
She  was  eleven.  She  wore  a  short  linen  dress  with  white 
lace-trimmed  pantalettes,  and  could  only  manage  an  octave 
as  an  arpeggio.  Beside  her,  half  turned  awa}-,  sat  Marj'a 
Ivanovna,  in  a  cap  with  rose-colored  ribbons,  a  blue  jacket, 
and  a  red  aud  angry  face,  which  assumed  a  still  more  for- 
bidding expression  when  Karl  b^anitch  entered.  She  looked 
threateningl}-  at  him  ;  and.  without  responding  to  his  salute, 
she  continued  to  count,  and  beat  time  with  heV  foot,  oue,  ttvo, 
three,  more  loudly  and  commandingly  than  before. 

Karl  Ivanitch,  paying  no  attention  whatever  to  this,  ac- 
cording  to  his  custom,  went   straight  to  kiss  my  mother's 


10  CHILnnOOD. 

hand  with  a  German  gre(>ting.  She  recovered  herself,  shook 
her  little  head  as  thouiih  desirous  of  driving  away  painful 
tlic^ughts  with  the  gebtui'e,  gave  her  hand  to  Karl  Ivanitch, 
and  kissed  him  on  his  wrinkled  temple,  \vhile  he  kissed  her 
hand. 

''  Thank  you,  my  dear  Karl  Ivanitch."  And  continuing 
to  speak  in  (Jerman,  she  inquired  : 

''  Did  the  children  sleep  well?  " 

Karl  Ivanitch  was  deaf  in  one  ear,  and  now  heard  nothing 
at  all  on  account  of  the  noise  from  the  piano.  He  bent  over 
the  divan,  rested  one  hand  on  the  table  as  he  stood  on  one 
foot ;  and  with  a  smile  which  seemed  to  me  then  the  height 
of  refinement,  he  raised  his  cap  above  his  head,  and  said  : 

"  Will  you  excuse  me,  Natah^a  Nikolaevna?  " 

Karl  Ivanitch,  for  the  sake  of  not  catching  cold  in  his 
bald  head,  never  took  off  his  red  cap  ;  but  each  time  he 
entered  the  drawing-room  he  begged  permission  to  keep  it 
on. 

"  Put  on  3'our  cap,  Karl  Ivanitch.  ...  I  ask  you  if  the 
children  slept  well?"  said  mamma,  moving  nearer  to  him, 
and  speaking  louiler. 

But  again  he  heard  nothing,  covered  his  bald  spot  with 
his  red  cap,  and  smiled  more  amiabl}'  than  ever. 

"  Stop  a  minute,  Mimi,"  said  mamma  to  Marya  Iva- 
novna  with  a  smile  :  "  we  can  hear  nothing." 

licautiful  as  Avas  mamma's  face,  it  became  incomparably 
more  lovely  лгЬеп  she  smiled,  and  seemed  to  enliven  every 
thing  al)Out  her.  If  in  life's  trying  moments  I  could  catch 
but  a  glimpse  of  that  smile,  I  should  not  know  what  grief  is. 
It  seems  to  me  that  Avhat  is  called  beauty  of  face  consists  in 
the  smile  alone  :  if  it  does  not  alter  the  countenance,  then 
the  latter  is  ordinary  ;  if  it  spoils  it,  then  it  is  bad. 

AYhen  greeting  me,  mamma  took  m}'  head  in  both  her 
hands,  and  bent  it  back,  looked  intently  at  me,  and  said : 

"  You  have  been  crying  this  morning?  " 

I  made  no  reply.  She  kissed  me  on  the  e^'es,  and  asked 
in  German  : 

"  AVhat  were  you  cr^'ing  about?  " 

When  she  spoke  pleasantly  to  us,  she  alwa3S  addressed  us 
in  that  tongue,  which  she  knew  to  perfection. 

"  I  cried  in  ni}-  sleep,  mamma,"  I  said,  recalling  my  ficti- 
tious dream  with  all  the  details,  and  I  involuntarily  shuddered 
at  the  thought. 


CniLDnOOD.  11 

Karl  Ivanitch  confirmed  my  statement,  but  held  his  peace 
about  the  dream.  After  discussing  the  weather,  in  Avhich 
conversation  Mimi  also  took  part,  mamma  laid  six  pieces  of 
sugar  on  the  tray  for  some  of  the  favored  servants,  and  went 
to  her  embroidery-frame  which  stood  in  the  window. 

'•Now go  to  your  father,  children,  and  tell  him  tliat  he  must 
come  to  me  without  fail  before  he  goes  to  threshing-floor." 

The  music,  counting,  and  black  looks  began  again,  and 
we  went  to  papa.  Passing  through  the  room  which  had 
borne  the  title  of  the  butler's  pantry  since  grandfather's 
time,  we  entered  the  study. 


12  CIIILDnOOD. 


CHAPTER   III. 

PAPA. 

He  was  standing  bj'  his  writing-table,  and  pointing  to  some 
envelopes,  y)apers,  and  l)undles  of  bank-notes.  He  was  an- 
giy,  and  was  discnssing  something  shaqjly  with  the  OA'erseer, 
YajkovMikliailef,  who,  standing  in  his  usnal  place,  between 
the  door  and  the  barometer,  with  his  hands  behind  him, 
\vas  moving  his  fingers  with  great  vivacity  in  varions  direc- 
tions. 

The  angrier  papa  grew,  the  more  swiftly  did  the  fingers 
move,  and  on  the  contrary,  when  papa  ceased  speaking,  the 
fingers  also  stopped  ;  bnt  when  Yakov  began  to  talk  himself, 
liis  fingers  nnderwent  the  greatest  disturbance,  and  jumped 
wildly  about  on  all  sides.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Yakov's 
secret  thoughts  might  be  guessed  from  their  movements : 
but  his  face  was  always  quiet ;  it  expressed  a  sense  of  his 
own  dignity  and  at  the  same  time  of  subordination,  that  is 
to  say,  ''  I  am  right,  but  nevertheless  have  3'our  own  way  !  " 

When  papa  saw  us,  he  merely  said  : 

''  Wait,  I'll  be  with  you  presently." 

And  he  nodded  his  head  towards  the  door,  to  indicate  tliat 
one  of  us  was  to  shut  it. 

''Ah,  merciful  God!  what's  to  be  done  with  з'оп  now, 
Yakov?"  he  went  on,  speaking  to  the  overseer,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  (which  was  a  habit  with  him).  "•This  envelope 
Avith  an  enclosure  of  eight  hundred  rubles  ..." 

lakov  moved  his  abacus,  counted  off  eight  hundred  rubles, 
fixed  his  gaze  on  some  indefinite  point,  and  waited  for  what 
Avas  coming  next. 

"  Is  for  the  expenses  of  the  farming  during  my  absence. 
Do  3'ou  understand?  From  the  mill  j'on  are  to  receive  one 
thousand  rubles  :  is  that  so,  or  not?  You  are  to  receive  back 
eight  thousand  worth  of  loans  from  the  treasur}- ;  for  the 
h  ;y,  of  which,  according  to  3'our  own  calculation,  з^ои  can 


CHILDHOOD.  lo 

sell  seven  thousand  poods, ^  —  at  forty-five  kopeks,  I  Avill  say, 
• — you  will  get  thiee  thousand:  couseciueiitl}^  how  much 
money  will  3'ou  have  in  all?  Twelve  thousand:  is  that  so, 
or  not?  " 

"  Elxactly,  sir,"  said  Yakov. 

But  I  perceived  from  tlie  briskness  with  which  his  fingers 
moved,  that  he  wanted  to  answer  back :  papa  interrupted 
him. 

••  Now,  out  of  this  money,  л'ои  will  send  ten  thousand  ru- 
bles to  the  council  at  Petrovskoe.  Now,  the  money  which 
is  in  the  office  "  continued  papa  (Yakov  mixed  up  tiiis  twelve 
thousand,  and  told  off  twenty-one  thousand),  ''  you  will  bring 
to  me,  and  charge  to  expenses  on  this  present  date."  (Yakov 
shook  up  his  abacus  again,  and  turned  it,  indicating  thereby, 
it  is  probable,  that  the  twentj'-one  thousand  Avould  disapj)ear 
also).  ''And  this  envelope  containing  money  you  will  for- 
ward from  me  to  its  address." 

I  was  standing  near  the  table,  and  I  glanced  at  the  inscrip- 
tion.    It  read  :    "  Karl  Ivanitch  Planer." 

Papa  must  have  pei'ceived  that  I  had  read  what  it  was  not 
necessary  that  I  should  know  ;  for  he  laid  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder,  and  witli  a  slight  movement  indicated  tliat  I  was  to 
go  away  from  his  table.  I  did  not  understand  whetlier  it 
was  a  caress  or  a  hint ;  but,  whatever  it  meant,  I  kissed  the 
large,  sinewy  hand  Avhich  rested  on  my  shoulder. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  said  Yakov.  "  And  what  are  your  orders  with 
regard  to  the  Khabarovka  money?  " 

Khabarovka  was  mamma's  A'illage. 

"  Leave  it  in  the  office,  and  on  no  account  make  use  of  it 
without  my  orders." 

Jakov  remained  silent  for  a  few  seconds,  then  his  fingers 
twisted  about  with  increased  raj^iditv,  and  altering  the  ex- 
pression of  servile  stupidity  Avith  which  he  had  listened  to 
his  master's  orders,  to  the  expression  of  bold  cunning  which 
Avas  natural  to  him,  he  drew  the  abacus  towards  him,  and 
began  to  speak. 

"  Permit  me  to  report,  Piotr  Alexandritch,  that  it  shall  be 
as  3'ou  please,  but  it  is  impossible  to  pay  the  council  on  time. 
You  said,"  he  continued,  his  speecli  broken  with  pauses, 
"  that  we  must  receive  money  from  the  loans,  from  the  mill, 
and  from  the  hay."  As  he  mentioned  these  statistics,  he 
calculated  them  on  the  abacus.     "  I  am  afraid  that  we  may 

»  A  pood  ie  about  forty  pouude. 


14  CniLDHOOD. 

be  making  some  mistake  in  our  reckoning,"  he  added  after 
a  i)ause,  alaneing  sharply  at  papa. 

-HowV" 

'' Please  to  consider:  with  regard  to  the  mill,  since  the 
miller  has  been  to  me  twice  to  ask  for  delay,  and  has  sworn 
by  Christ  the  Lord  that  he  has  no  money  .  .  .  and  he  is 
here  now.     Will  you  not  please  to  talk  with  him  yourself?  " 

"  What  does  he  say?"  asked  papa,  signifying  by  a  motion 
of  his  head  that  he  did  not  wish  to  speak  with  the  miller. 

"The  same  old  story.  He  says  that  there  was  no  grind- 
ing ;  that  what  little  money  he  got,  he  put  into  the  dam.  If 
we  take  him  awaj^,  sir,  will  it  be  of  any  advantage  to  us? 
AVith  regard  to  the  loans,  as  j'ou  were  pleased  to  mention 
tliem,  1  think  I  have  already  reported  that  our  money  is  sunk 
th.M'e,  and  we  shall  not  be  able  to  get  at  it  very  soon.  I 
sent  a  load  of  flour  into  the  city  a  few  days  ago,  to  1л'ап 
Afanasitch,  with  a  note  about  the  matter ;  he  replied  that 
he  would  be  glad  to  exert  himself  in  Piotr  Alexandrovitch's 
behalf,  but  the  affair  is  not  in  my  hands,  and  you  will  hardly 
receive  your  quittance  under  two  months.  You  were  pleased 
to  speak  of  the  hay  :  suppose  it  does  sell  for  three  thousand." 

He  marked  oft'  three  thousand  on  his  abacus,  and  remaiued 
silent  for  a  moment,  glancing  first  at  his  calculating  frame 
and  then  at  papa's  eyes,  as  much  as  to  say : 

"  You  see  3'ourself  how  little  it  is.  Yes,  and  we  will  chaf- 
fer about  the  hay  again  if  it  is  to  be  sold  now,  3'ou  \vill 
please  to  understand." 

It  was  plain  that  he  had  a  great  store  of  arguments  ;  it 
must  have  been  for  that  reason  that  papa  interrupted  him. 

"  I  shall  make  no  change  in  my  arrangements,"  he  said  ; 
"but  if  any  delay  should  actuall3'  occur  in  receiving  this 
money,  then  there  is  nothing  to  be  done ;  3'ou  will  take 
what  is  necessary  from  the  Khabarovka  funds." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

It  was  evident  from  the  expression  of  Jakov's  face  and 
fingers,  that  this  last  order  aft'orded  him  the  greatest  satis- 
faction. 

Yakov  was  a  serf,  and  a  very  zealous  and  devoted  man. 
Like  all  good  overseers,  he  was  extremely  parsimonious  on 
his  master's  account,  and  entertained  the  strangest  possible 
ideas  as  to  what  Avas  for  his  master's  interest.  He  was  eter- 
nalh'  fretting  ол'ег  the  increase  of  his  master's  propert}^  at 
the  expense  of  that  of  his  mistress,  and  tried  to  demonstrate 


CHILDHOOD.  15 

that  it  was  indispensable  to  employ  all  the  revenue  from  her 
estate  upon  Petrovskoe  (the  village  in  which  we  lived) .  He 
was  triumphant  at  the  present  moment,  because  he  had  suc- 
ceeded on  this  point. 

Papa  greeted  us,  and  said  that  it  was  time  to  put  a  stop 
to  our  idleness  :  we  were  no  longer  small  children,  and  it  was 
time  for  us  to  study  seriously. 

"J  think  you  already  know  that  I  am  going  to  Moscow 
to-night,  and  I  shall  take  you  with  me,"  he  said.  "  You 
will  live  with  your  grandmother,  and  mamma  will  remain 
here  with  the  girls.  And  \o\\  know  that  she  will  have  but 
one  consolation, — to  hear  that  you  are  studying  well,  and 
that  they  are  pleased  with  you." 

Although  we  had  been  expecting  something  unusual,  from 
the  preparations  which  had  been  making  for  several  days, 
tlrfs  news  surprised  us  terribly.  Volodya  turned  red,  and 
repeated  mamma's  message  in  a  trembling  voice. 

'^  So  that  is  what  my  dream  foretold,  "  I  thought.  "God 
grant  there  may  be  nothing  worse  !  " 

I  was  very,  xevy  sorry  for  mamma  ;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
the  thought  that  we  were  grown  up  afforded  me  pleasure. 

'•  If  we  are  going  away  to-night,  we  surely  shall  Ьал'е  no 
lessons.  That's  famous,"  I  thought.  "  But  I'm  sorry  for 
Karl  Ivanovitch.  He  is  ccrtainW  going  to  be  discharged, 
otherwise  that  envelope  would  not  have  been  prepared  for 
him.  It  would  be  better  to  go  on  studying  forever,  and  not 
go  away,  and  not  part  from  mamma,  and  not  hurt  poor  Karl 
Ivanitch's  feelings.     He  is  so  very  unhappy  !  " 

These  thoughts  flashed  through  my  mind.  I  did  not  stir  from 
the  spot,  and  gazed  intently  at  the  black  ribbons  in  my  slippers. 

After  speaking  a  few  words  to  Karl  Ivanitch  about  the 
fall  of  the  barometer,  and  giving  orders  to  Jakoy  not  to  feed 
the    dogs,  in  order  that  he  might  go  out  after  dinner  and  , 
make  a  farewell  trial  of  the  3'oung  hounds,  papa,  contrary  ' 
to  m}^  expectations,  sent  us  to  our  studies,  comforting  us, 
however,  with  a  promise  to  take  us  on  the  hunt. 

On  the  way  up-stairs,  I  ran  out  on  the  terrace.  Papa's 
favorite  greyhound,  Milka,  lay  blinking  in  the  sunshine  at 
tlie  door. 

"  Milotchka,"  I  said,  petting  her  and  kissing  her  nose, 
"  we  are  going  away  to-day  ;'good-by  !  AVe  shall  never  see 
each  other  again." 

My  feelings  overpower.e^^^e,  and  I  burst  into  tears. 


16  CHILDHOOD. 


сыагтр:к  IV. 

LESSOXS. 

Karl  Ivanitch  was  л^егу  much  out  of  sorts.  This  was 
evident  from  his  frowuing  brows,  and  from  the  way  he  flung 
his  coat  into  the  commode,  his  angry  manner  of  tying  his 
girdle,  and  the  deep  mark  which  he  made  with  his  nail  in  the 
conversation-book  to  indicate  the  point  which  we  must  attam. 
Volodya  studied  properly  ;  but  my  mind  was  so  upset  thftt 
I  positively  could  do  nothing.  I  gazed  long  and  stupidly 
at  the  conversation-book,  but  I  could  not  read  for  the  tears 
which  gathered  in  my  eyes  at  the  thought  of  the  parting 
before  us.  When  the  time  for  recitation  came,  Karl  Ivanitch 
listened  with  his  eyes  half  shut  (which  was  a  bad  sign)  ;  and 
just  at  the  place  where  one  says,  "  Where  do  you  come 
from?"  and  the  other  answers,  "I  come  from  the  coffee- 
house," I  could  no  longer  restrain  my  tears;  and  soljs  [)ге- 
vented  my  uttering,  ''Have  you  not  read  the  paper?" 
\Vhen  it  came  to  writing,  I  made  such  blots  with  my  tears 
falling  on  the  paper,  that  I  might  have  been  writing  with 
water  on  wrapping-pai)er. 

Karl  Ivanitch  became  angry  ;  he  put  me  on  his  knees, 
declared  that  it  was  obstinacy,  a  puppet  comedy  (this  was  a 
fa\'orite  expression  of  his),  threatened  me  Avith  the  ruler, 
and  demanded  that  I  should  beg  his  pardon,  although  I  could 
not  utter  a  word  for  my  tears.  He  must  have  recognized 
his  injustice  at  length,  for  he  went  into  Nikolai's  room  and 
slammed  the  door. 

The  conversation  in  dyadka's  room  was  audible  in  the 
schoolroom. 

"You  have  heard,  Nikolai,  that  the  children  are  going  to 
Moscow?  "  said  Karl  Iл'anitch  as  he  entered. 

"  Certainly,  I  have  heard  that." 

Nikolai  must  ha\'e  made  a  motion  to  rise,  for  Karl  Ivanitch 
said,  "Sit  still,  Nikolai!"  and  then  he  shut  the  door.  I 
emerged  from  the  corner,  and  went  to  listen  at  the  door. 


CHILDHOOD.  17 

"  However  much  good  you  do  to  people,  however  much 
you  are  attached  to  them,  gratitude  is  not  to  be  expected, 
apparent!}',  ЛЧкоЫ,"  said  Karl  Ivanitch  with  feeling. 

ISikohii,  who  was  sitting  at  the  window  at  his  shoemaking, 
nodded  his  head  affirmatively. 

'•'•  1  have  lived  in  this  house  twelve  j'ears,  and  I  can  say 
before  God,  Nikolai,"  continued  Kai'l  Ivanitch,  raising  his 
eyes  and  his  snuff-box  to  the  ceiling,  "that  1  have  loved  them, 
and  taken  more  interest  in  them  than  if  they  had  been  my 
own  children.  You  remember,  Nikolai,  when  Volodenka  had 
the  fever,  hoлv  I  sat  by  his  bedside,  and  never  closed  m}'  eyes 
for  nine  days.  Yes  ;  then  I  was  good,  dear  Karl  Ivanitch  ; 
then  I  was  necessary.  But  now,"  he  added  with  an  ironical 
smile,  "  now  the  children  are  grown  up ;  they  must  study  in 
earnest.  Just  as  if  fhey  were  not  learning  any  thing  here, 
Nikolai!  " 

''So  they  are  to  study  more,  it  seems?"  said  Nikolai, 
laying  down  his  awl,  and  drawing  out  his  thread  Avith  both 
hands. 

''  Yes  :  I  am  no  longer  needed,  I  must  be  driven  off.  But 
where  are  their  promises  ?  Where  is  their  gratitude  ?  I  re- 
vere and  love  Natalya  Nikolaevua,  Nikolai,"  said  he,  laying 
his  hand  on  his  breast.  '"  But  what  is  she?  Her  will  is  of 
no  more  consequence  in  this  house  than  that ;  "  hereupon  he 
flung  a  scrap  of  leather  on  the  floor  with  an  expressive  ges- 
ture. "  1  know  whose  doing  this  is,  and  why  I  am  no  longer 
needed  ;  because  I  don't  lie,  and  pretend  not  to  see  things, 
like  some  people.  I  have  alwaj's  been  accustomed  to  speak 
the  truth  to  every  one,"  said  he  proudly.  "  God  be  with 
them  !  They  won't  accumulate  wealth  by  getting  rid  of  me  ; 
and  God  is  merciful.  —  I  shall  find  a  bit  of  bread  for  m^-self , 
.    .   .   shall  I  not,  Nikolai?" 

Nikolai  I'aised  his  head  and  looked  at  Karl  Ivanitch,  ar 
though  desirous  of  assuring  himself  whether  he  reall}'  wouby 
be  able  to  find  a  l)it  of  bread  ;  but  he  said  nothing.  Г} 

Karl  Ivanitch  talked  much  and  long  in  this  strain.  II^j 
said  they  had  l)een  moi'e  cnpable  of  :ippreci;iting  his  servic  к- 
at  a  certain  general's  liousc.  where  lie  had  formerly  lived  ( ... 
was  much  pained  to  lie:>r  it).  He  si^oke  of  Saxony,  of  his 
parents,  of  his  friend  the  tialor,  Scliunheit,  antl  so  forth,  and 
SI)  forth. 

I  symi)athizi'<l  with  his  sorrDW.  and  il  iiained  me  that  papa 
and  Karl    Ivanitch,  \\  hum    1    Ьпчч!   almost  equally,   «lid   nut 


i 


18  CHILDHOOD. 

understand  each  other.  I  l)eto(>k  myself  to  ra}- corner  again, 
crouched  down  on  my  lieels,  and  pondered  how  1  might  bring 
about  an  undei'stancbng  between  them. 

When  Karl  Ivanitch  returned  to  the  sclioolroom,  he  ordered 
me  to  get  up,  and  prepare  my  сору-1юок  for  writing  from 
dictation.  AVhen  all  was  ready,  he  seated  himself  majesti- 
cally in  his  arm-chair,  and  in  a  л'о1се  which  appeared  t(j  issue 
from  some  great  deptli,  he  Ijegan  to  dictate  as  follows  : 

"  'Of  all  pas-sions  the  most  re-volt-ing  is,'  have  you  writ- 
ten that?"  Here  he  paused,  slowly  took  a  pinch  of  snuff, 
and  continued  with  reuevved  energy,  —  "  '  the  most  revolting 
is  In-gra-ti-tude  '   .   .   .  a  capital /." 

1  looked  at  him  after  writing  the  last  word,  in  expectation 
of  more. 

"Period,"  said  he,  with  a  barely  perceptible  smile,  and 
made  me  a  sign  to  give  him  my  copy-book. 

He  read  this  apothegm,  which  gave  utterance  to  his  in- 
ward sentiment,  througii  several  times,  with  various  intona- 
tions, and  with  an  expression  of  the  greatest  satisfaction. 
Then  he  set  us  a  lesson  in  history,  and  seated  himself  by 
the  window.  His  face  was  not  so  morose  as  it  had  1)een  ;  it 
expressed  the  deliglit  of  a  man  who  had  taken  a  proper 
revenge  for  an  insult  that  had  l)een  put  upon  him. 

It  was  quarter  to  one  ;  but  Karl  Ivanitch  had  no  idea  of 
dismissing  us,  apparently  :  in  fact,  he  gave  out  some  new 
lessons. 

Ennui  and  hunger  increased  in  equal  measure.  With  the 
greatest  impatience,  I  noted  all  the  signs  which  betokened 
the  near  approach  of  dinner.  There  came  the  woman  with 
her  mop  to  wash  the  plates  ;  then  I  could  hear  the  dishes 
rattle  on  the  sideboard.  I  heard  them  move  the  table,  and 
l)lace  the  chairs;  then  Mimi  came  in  from  the  garden  with 
J.;ubotchka  and  Jvatenka  (Katenka  was  Mimi's  twelve-year- 
' )ld  daughter);  but  hdthing  was  to  be  seen  of  Foka,  the 
.mtler,  who  always  came  and  announced  that  dinner  was 
'eady.  Then  only  could  we  throw  aside  our  books  without 
aying  au}'  attention  to  Karl  Ivanitch,  and  run  down-stairs. 

Then  footsteps  were  audible  on  the  stairs,  but  that  was 
not  Foka !  I  knew  his  step  by  heart,  and  could  always 
recognize  the  squeak  of  his  boots.  The  door  opened,  and  a 
flgure  which  was  totally  unknown  to  me  appeared. 


CHILDHOOD.  19 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    FOOL. 

Into  the  room  walked  a  man  of  fifty,  with  a  long,  pale, 
pock-marked  face,  with  long  gra}'  hair  and  a  sparse  reddish 
beard.  He  was  of  sncli  vast  height,  that  in  order  to  pass 
through  the  door,  he  was  obliged  to  bend  not  only  his  head, 
but  his  whole  bod}'.  He  wore  a  ragged  garment  which  re- 
semljled  both  a  caftan  and  a  cassock  ;  in  his  hand  he  carried 
a  huge  staff.  As  he  entered  the  room,  he  smote  the  floor 
with  it  with  all  his  might ;  opening  his  mouth,  and  wrinkling 
his  brows,  he  laughed  in  a  terrible  and  unnatural  manner. 
He  was  blind  of  one  eye  ;  and  the  white  pupil  of  that  eye 
hopped  about  incessanth%  and  imparted  to  his  otherwise 
homely  countenance  a  still  more  repulsive  exi)ression. 

"Aha!  I've  found  you!"  he  shouted,  running  up  to 
A"olod3^a  with  little  steps  :  he  seized  his  head,  and  began  a 
careful  examination  of  his  crown.  Then,  with  a  perfectly 
serious  expression,  he  left  him,  walked  up  to  the  table,  and 
began  to  blow  under  the  oil-cloth,  and  to  make  the  sign  of 
the  cross  over  it.     "  0-oh,  it's  a  pity!  o-oh,  it's  sad  !     The 

!  dear  children  .  .  .  will  fly  away,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  quiv- 
ering with  tears,  gazing  feelingly  at  Volodya  ;  and  he  began 

'  to  wipe  ana}-  the  tears  which  were  actually  falling,  with  his 

/^sleeve. 

/  His  A'oice  was  coarse  and  hoarse  ;  his  moA-ements  hast}'^ 
and  rough  ;  his  talk  was  silly  and  incoherent  (he  пел-ег  used 
any  pronouns)  ;  but  his  intonations  were  so  touching,  and 
his  grotesque  yellow  face  assumed  at  times  such  a  frankly 
sorrowful  expiession,  that,  in  listening  to  him.  it  was  impos- 
silile  to  refrain  from  a  feeling  of  mingled  pit}',  fear,  and 
grief._  • 

This  was  the  fool  and  pilgrim  Grischa. 
ДУЬепсе  was  he?     "Wlio  were  liis  parents?     "What  h:id  in- 
duced him  to  adopt  the  singular  life  uhieii  he  led?     No  one 


20  CHILDHOOD. 

knew.  I  only  knew  that  ho  had  passed  since  the  aoje  of  fif- 
teen as  a  foul  who  went  barefoot  winter  and  «uinmer.  \-isited 
the  monasteries,  gave  little  images  to  those  who  struck  his 
fanc3\  and  uttered  enigmatic  words  whicli  some  people  ac- 
cepted as  prophecy  ;  that  no  one  hatl  ever  known  him  in  any 
other  aspect;  that  he  occasionally  went  to  grandmother's; 
and  that  some  said  he  was  the  unfortunate  sou  of  Avealth}' 
parents,  and  a  genuine  fool ;  while  others  held  that  he  was  a 
simple  peasant  and  lazy. 

At  length  the  long-wished-for  and  punctual  Foka  arrived, 
and  we  went  down-stairs.  Grischa,  who  continued  to  sob 
and  talk  all  sorts  of  nonsense,  followed  us,  and  pounded 
every  step  on  the  stairs  with  his  staff.  Papa  and  mamma 
entered  the  drawing-room  arm  in  arm.  discussing  something 
in  a  low  tone.  Marya  Ivanovna  w^as  sitting  with  much  dig- 
nity in  one  of  the  arm-chairs,  symmetrically  arranged  at  right 
angles  close  to  the  divan,  and  giving  instructions  in  a  stern, 
repressed  л'о1се  to  the  girls  who  sat  l^eside  her.  As  soon 
as  Karl  Ivanitch  entered  the  room,  she  glanced  at  him,  but 
immediately  turned  awa}' ;  and  her  face  assumed  an  expres- 
sion which  might  have  been  interi)reted  to  mean:  "I  do  not 
see  you,  Karl  ivanitch."  It  was  plain  from  the  girls'  eyes, 
that  they  were  ver^'  anxious  to  impart  to  us  some  extiemel}- 
important  news  as  soon  as  possible  ;  but  it  would  have  been 
an  infringement  of  Mirai's  rules  to  jump  up  and  come  to  us. 
We  must  first  go  to  her,  and  say,  '■'^  Bo)iJour,  Mimi !  "  and 
give  a  scrape  with  the  foot ;  and  then  it  Avas  permissil)le  to 
enter  into  conversation. 

What  an  intolerable  creature  that  Mimi  was  !     It  was  im- 
possible to  talk  about  any  thing  in  her  presence  :   she  con- 
sidered every  thing  improi)er.     Moreover,  she  was  coubtr 
exhorting  us  to  speak  French,  and  that,  as  if  out  of  m; 
just  when  we  wanted  to  chatter  in  Russian  ;  or  at  dinii 
you   would  just  begin  to  enjoy  a  dish,  and  Avant  to  1 
alone,  when  she  would  infallibly  say,  "  Eat  that  with  brci  ..." 
or  ••  How  are  з'ои  holding  your  fork?  "  —  "  What  business  is 
it  of  hers?  "  you  think.     '•  Let  her  teach  her  girls,  but  Karl 
Ivauitch  is  there  to  see  to  us."     I  fully 'shared  his  hatred 
for  some  2)eo2)Ie. 

"  Ask  mamma  to  take  us  on  the  hunt,"  whispered  Katen- 
ka,  stopping  me  by  seizing  my  round  jacket,  when  tfie 
grown-up  peojjle  iiad  passed  on  before  into  the  dining-roipm. 

•'\'erv  good  :    we  will  trv." 


CIIILDUOOD.  21 

Grischa  ate  in  the  dining-room,  but  at  a  small  table  apart ; 
he  did  not  raise  his  eyes  from  liis  plate,  made  feaifnl  o-rim- 
aces,  sighed  occasionally,  and  said,  as  though  speaking  to 
himself:  ''It's  a  pity  .\  .  she  ^  has  flown  away  .  .  .  the 
dove  will  fly  to  heaven.  .  .  .  Oh,  there's  a  stone  on  the 
grave  !  "  and  so  on. 

Mamma  had  been  in  a  troubled  state  of  mind  ever  since 
the  morning ;  Grischa's  presence,  words,  and  behavior, 
evidently  increased  this  i)ertiirl)ation. 

•'Ah,' I  nearly  forgot  to  ask  you  about  one  thing,"  she 
said,  handing  papa  a  plate  of  soup. 

"What  is  it?  " 

"Please  have  your  dreadful  dogs  shut  up:  they  came 
near  biting  poor  Grischa  when  he  [)assed  through  the  yard. 
And  they  might  attack  the  children." 

Hearing  himself  mentioned,  Grischa  turned  towards  the 
table,  and  began  to  exhibit  the  torn  tails  of  his  garment, 
and  to  speak  with  his  mouth  full. 

"  They  wanted  to  bite  to  death.  .  .  .  God  did  not  allow 
it.  .  .  .  It's  a  sin  to  set  the  dogs  on !  Don't  beat  the 
bolschak-  .  .  .  why  beat?  God  forgives  —  times  are  dif- 
ferent now." 

"  What's  that  he's  saying?"  asked  papa,  gazing  sternly 
and  intently  at  him.      '•  I  don't  understand  a  word." 

"But  I  understand,"  answered  mamma:  "he  is  telling 
me  that  some  huntsman  set  his  dogs  on  liim,  on  pur[)Ose,  as 
he  says,  'that  they  might  bite  him  to  death,'  and  he  begs 
3'ou  not  to  punish  the  man  for  it." 

"  Ah  !  that's  it,"  said  papa.  "  How  does  he  know  that  I 
mean  to  punish  tlie  huntsman?  You  know  that  I'm  not  over 
fond  of  these  gentlemen,"  he  added  in  French,  "and  this 
one  in  i)articular  does  not  please  me,  and  ought"  — 

"  Ah,  do  not  say  that,  my  dear."  interrupted  mamma,  os 
if  frightened  at  something.   '•  What  do  you  know  about  him  ?" 

"it  seems  to  me  that  I  have  had  occasion  to  learn  these 
people's    ways   by    heart :    enough    of    them    come    to    you. 
They're  all  of  one  cut.     It's  forever  and  eternally  the  same/ 
story." 

It  was  plain  that  mamma  held  a  totally  different  opinion 
on  this  point,  but  she  would  not  dispute. 

'  It  is  iiidispeiisable  to  the  [^еч^е  in  English  to  ciniiloy  pror.onns,  occasionally. 
This  limy  be  considered  a  speeimen  of  Gnscha's  piopUucy,  the  prououu  being  iudi- 
calcd  liy  th(^  temii nation  of  the  veib. 

-  Elder  of  a  village,  family,  or  ivligious  coiumuuity. 


22  CHILDHOOD. 

"  Please  ^ive  me  a  patty,"  said  she.  "  Are  the}'  good  to- 
day?" 

"Yes,  it  makes  me  angry,"  went  on  papa,  taking  a  patty 
in  his  hand,  bnt  hokling  it  at  such  a  distance  that  mamma 
coukl  not  reach  it ;  "it  makes  me  angry,  when  I  see  sensible 
and  cultivated  people  fall  into  the  trap." 

And  he  struck  the  table  with  his  fork. 

"■  I  asked  you  to  hand  me  a  patt}^,"  she  repeated,  reaching 
out  her  hand. 

"And  they  do  well,"  continued  papa,  moving  his  hand 
farther  awaj',  "when  they  arrest  such  people.  The  only 
good  the}'  do  is  to  upset  the  weak  nerves  of  certain  indi- 
viduals," he  added  with  a  smile,  perceiving  that  the  conver- 
sation greatly  displeased  mannna,  and  gave  her  the  patty. 

"  I  have  only  one  remark  to  make  to  you  on  the  subject : 
it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  a  man,  who,  in  spite  of  his  sixty 
years,  goes  barefoot  summer  and  winter,  and  wears  chains 
weighing  two  poods,  which  he  never  takes  off,  under  his 
clothes,  and  who  has  more  than  once  rejected  a  proposal  to 
lead  an  easy  life,  —  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  such  a  man 
does  all  this  from  laziness." 

"  As  for  prophecy,"  she  added,  with  a  sigh,  after  a  pause, 
"  I  have  paid  for  my  belief;  I  think  I  have  told  j'ou  how 
Kiriuscha  foretold  the  very  day  and  hour  of  papa's  death." 

"Ah,  what  have  you  done  to  me!"  exclaimed  papa, 
smiling  and  putting  his  hand  to  his  mouth  on  the  side  where 
Mimi  sat.  (When  he  did  this,  I  always  listened  with  strained 
attention,  in  the  expectation  of  something  amusing.)  "  Why 
have  you  reminded  me  of  his  feet?  I  have  looked  at  them, 
and  now  I  shall  not  be  able  to  eat  апл'  thing." 

The  dinner  was  nearing  its  end.  Liubotchka  and  Katenka 
winked  at  us  incessantly,  twisted  on  their  cliairs.  and  evinced 
the  greatest  uneasiness.  The  winks  signified  :  "  Why  don't 
you  ask  them  to  take  us  hunting?  "  I  nudged  Volodya  with 
my  elbow  ;  Volodya  nudged  me,  and  finally  summoned  up  his 
couiage  :  he  explained,  at  first  in  a  timid  voice,  but  after- 
wards quite  lirmly  and  loudly,  that,  as  we  were  to  leave  on 
that  day,  we  should  like  to  have  the  girls  taken  to  the  hunt 
лvith  us,  in  the  carriage.  After  a  short  consultation  among 
the  grown-up  people,  the  question  was  decided  in  our  favor; 
aud,  what  Avas  still  more  pleasant,  mamma  said  that  she 
would  ЦО  with  us  herself. 


cniLDnooB.  23 


CHAPTER   Vr. 

PKEPARATIONS    FOR    THE    HUNT. 

During  dessert,  Jakov  was  summoned,  and  recewed  orders 
with  regard  to  the  carriage,  the  dogs,  and  the  saddle-horses, 
--all  being  giA'en  with  the  greatest  minuteness,  and  every 
Aorse  specified  byname.  Volodya's  horse  was  lame:  papa 
ordered  the  hunter  to  be  saddled  for  him.  This  word 
"■hunter"  always  souuded  strange  in  mamma's  ears:  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  must  be  something  in  the  nature  of  a 
wild  beast,  and  that  it  would  infallibly  run  away  with  and 
kill  Volodya.  In  spite  of  the  exhortations  of  papa  and  of 
Volodya,  who  with  wonderful  boldness  asserted  that  that  was 
nothing,  and  that  he  liked  to  have  the  horse  run  away  ex- 
tremely, poor  mamma  continued  to  declare  that  she  should 
be  in  torments  during  the  whole  of  the  excursion. 

Dinner  came  to  an  end  ;  the  big  people  went  to  the  library 
to  drink  their  coffee,  while  we  ran  into  the  garden,  to  scrape 
our  feet  along  the  paths  covered  with  the  yellow  leaves  which 
had  fallen,  and  to  talk.  The  conversation  began  on  the 
subject  of  Volodya  riding  the  hunter,  and  how  shameful  it 
was  that  Liubotchka  ran  more  softly  than  Katenka,  and  how 
interesting  it  would  be  to  see  Grischa's  chains,  and  so  on  : 
not  a  word  was  said  about  our  separation.  Our  conversation 
was  interrupted  by  the  arrival  of  the  carriage,  upon  each  of 
whose  springs  sat  a  servant  boy.  Behind  the  carriage  came 
the  huntsmen  with  the  dogs;  behind  the  huntsmen,  Ignat 
tlie  coachman,  on  the  horse  destined  for  Volod^'a,  and  lead- 
ing my  old  nag  by  the  bridle.  First  луе  rushed  to  the  fence, 
whence  all  these  interesting  things  were  visible,  and  then  we 
flew  up-stairs  shrieking  and  stamping,  lo  dress  ourselves  as 
much  like  hunters  as  possible.  One  of  the  chief  means  to 
this  end  was  tucking  our  trousers  into  our  boots.  We  be- 
took ourselves  to  this  without  delay,  making  haste  to  com- 
plete the  operation,  and  run  out  upon  the  steps  to  enjoy  the 


24  CniLDUOOD. 

sight  of  the  dogs  and  horses,  and  the  conversation  with  the 
huntsmen. 

Tlie  day  was  warm.  AVhite  clouds  of  fanciful  forms  had 
been  hoA'ering  all  the  morning  on  the  horizon  ;  then  the  little 
breezes  drove  them  nearer  and  nearer,  so  that  they  obscured 
the  sun  from  time  to  time.  But  black  and  frequent  as  were 
these  clouds,  it  was  i)lain  that  the}"  were  not  destined  to 
gather  into  a  thunder-storm,  and  spoil  our  enjoyment  on  our 
last  opportunity.  Towards  evening  they  began  to  disperse 
again  :  some  grew  pale,  lengthened  out,  and  fled  to  the  hori- 
zon ;  others,  just  overhead,  turned  into  white  transparent 
scales ;  only  one  large  black  cloud  lingered  in  the  east. 
Karl  Ivanitch  always  knew  Avhere  every  sort  of  cloud  went ; 
he  declared  that  this  cloud  would  go  to  Maslovka,  that  there 
would  be  no  rain,  and  that  the  weather  would  be  fine. 

Foka,  in  spite  of  his  advanced  years,  ran  down  the  steps 
very  quickly  and  cleverly,  cried,  "  Drive  up  !  "  and,  planting 
his  feet  far  apart,  stood  firm  in  the  middle  of  the  entrance, 
between  the  spot  to  which  the  carriage  should  be  brought, 
and  the  threshold,  in  the  attitude  of  a  man  who  does  not  need 
to  be  I'eminded  of  his  duty.  The  ladies  folloлved,  and  after 
a  brief  dispute  as  to  луЬо  should  sit  on  which  side,  and  whom 
they  should  cling  to  (although  it  seemed  to  me  quite  un- 
necessar}^  to  hold  on),  they  seated  themselves,  opened  their 
parasols,  and  drove  off.  When  the  lineika  ^  started,  mam- 
ma pointed  to  the  hunter,  and  asked  the  coachman  in  a 
trembling  voice : 

'•  Is  that  the  horse  for  Vladimir  PetroA'iteh?  " 

And  when  the  coachman  replied  in  the  affirmative,  she 
waved  her  hand  and  turned  away.  I  луаз  very  impatient :  1 
mounted  my  horse,  looked  straight  between  his  ears,  and 
went  through  various  evolutions  in  the  court-yard. 

"  Please  not  to  crush  the  dogs,"  said  one  of  the  hunts- 
men. 

"  Rest  easy  :  this  is  not  my  first  experience,"  I  answered 
pi'oudly. 

Volodya  mounted  the  hunter,  not  without  some  quaking 
in  spite  of  his  resolution  of  character,  and  asked  several 
times  as  he  patted  him : 

'•  Is  he  gentle?  " 

He  looked  very  handsome  on  horseback,  —  just  like  я 
grown-up  person.     His  thighs  sat  so  well  on  the  saddle  that 

'  л  particular  so.t  of  four-sealeii  diozhky. 


CniLDnOOD.  25 

I  was  еплпоиз,  —  particularly  as,  so  far  as  I  could  judge 
from  my  shadow,  I  was  far  from  presenting  so  fine  au 
appearance. 

Then  w^e  heard  papa's  step  on  the  stairs  :  the  overseer  of 
the  young  dogs  drove  up  the  scattered  hounds  ;  the  hunts- 
men with  greyliounds  called  in  theirs,  and  began  to  mount. 
The  groom  led  the  horse  to  the  steps  ;  papa's  leash  of  dogs, 
wiiich  had  been  h'ing  about  in  various  picturesque  poses, 
viva  to  him.  After  him,  in  a  bead  collar  jingling  like  iron, 
jNIilka  sprang  gayly  out.  She  always  greeted  the  male  dogs 
^viien  she  came  out;  she  played  with  some,  smelled  of 
others,  growled  a  little,  and  hunted  fleas  ou  others. 

Тара  mounted  his  horse,  and  we  set  out. 


26  CHILDHOOn. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    HUNT, 

The  huntsman  in  chief,  who  was  called  Turka,  rode  in 
front  on  a  dark-gray  Koman-nosed  horse  ;  he  wore  a  shaggy 
cap,  a  huge  horn  over  his  shoulder,  and  a  knife  in  his  belt. 
From  the  man's  fierce  and  gloomj^  exterior,  one  would  sooner 
imagine  that  he  was  going  to  deadl}'  conflict  than  on  a  hunt- 
ing expedition.  About  the  hiud  heels  of  his  horse  ran  the 
hounds,  clustered  together  in  a  many-hued.  undulating  pack. 
It  was  pitiful  to  contemplate  the  fate  which  befell  any  un- 
fortunate dog  who  took  it  into  his  head  to  linger  behind. 
His  companion  was  forced  to  drag  him  along  with  great 
effort ;  and  when  he  had  succeeded  in  this,  one  of  the  hunts- 
men who  rode  in  the  rear  never  failed  to  give  him  a  cut  with 
liis  whip,  saying,  "To  the  pack  with  you!"  AVhen  ^Ye 
emerged  from  the  gates,  papa  ordered  us  and  the  huntsmen 
to  ride  along  the  road,  but  he  himself  turned  into  a  field  of 
rye. 

The  grain  harvest  was  in  full  swing.  The  shinmg  yellow 
field,  extending  farther  than  the  eye  could  reach,  was  closed 
in  on  one  side  only  by  a  lofty  blue  forest  which  seemed  to 
me  then  a  very  distant  and  mysterious  place,  behind  which 
the  world  came  to  an  end,  or  some  uninhabited  region  began. 
The  whole  field  was  covered  with  shocks  of  sheaves  and  with 
people.  Here  and  there  amid  the  tall  rye,  on  some  spot 
that  had  been  reaped,  the  bended  back  of  a  reaper  was 
visible,  the  swing  of  the  ears  as  she  laid  them  between  her 
fingers,  a  woman  in  the  shade,  bending  over  a  cradle,  and 
scattered  sheaA^es  upon  the  stubble  strewn  with  cornflowers. 
In  another  quarter,  peasants  clad  only  in  their  shirts,  stand- 
ing on  carts,  were  loading  the  sheaA'es,  and  raising  a  dust  in 
the  dry,  hot  fields.  The  starosta  (overseer),  in  boots,  and 
with  his  armyak^  thrown  on  without  the  slecA^es,  and  tally- 

1  A  long,  wide  coat  worn  by  peasants. 


CniLDHOOD.  27 

sticks  ill  his  hand,  perceiving  papa  in  the  distance,  took  off 
bis  lamb's-wool  cap,  wiped  liis  reddish  head  and  lieard  with 
a  towel,  and  shouted  at  the  women.  The  sorrel  horse  which 
papa  rode  had  a  light,  playful  gait ;  now  and  then  he 
dropped  his  head  on  his  breast,  pulled  at  the  reins,  and  with 
liis  heavy  tail  brushed  away  the  horse-flies  and  common  flies 
Avhich  clung  thirstil}"  to  him.  Two  gre^diouuds  with  their 
tails  curved  in  the  shape  of  a  sickle  lifted  their  legs  high, 
and  si)rang  gracefully  over  the  tall  stul)ble,  behind  the 
horse's  heels  ;  Milka  ran  in  front,  and,  Avith  head  bent  low, 
was  watching  for  the  scent.  The  conversation  of  the  peo- 
ple, the  noise  of  the  horses  and  carts,  the  merry  whistle  of 
the  quail,  the  hum  of  insects  which  circled  in  motionless 
swarms  in  the  air,  the  scent  of  the  wormwood,  the  straw,  and 
the  sweat  of  the  horses,  the  thousands  of  A'aryiug  hues  and 
shadows  лvhich  the  glowing  sun  poured  over  the  bright- 
yellow  stubble  field,  the  blue  of  the  distant  forest  and  the 
pale  lilac  of  the  clouds,  the  white  spider's  webs  which  floated 
through  the  air  or  lay  upon  the  stubble, — all  this  I  saw, 
heard,  and  felt. 

When  лve  reached  Kalinovoe  (л-ibnrnum)  woods,  we  found 
the  carriage  alread}^  there,  and,  beyond  all  our  expectations, 
a  cart,  in  the  midst  of  which  sat  the  butler.  In  the  shade 
луе  beheld  a  samovar,  a  cask  with  a  form  of  ice-cream,  and 
some  other  attractive  parcels  and  baskets.  It  was  impossi- 
ble to  make  an^'  mistake  :  there  was  to  be  tea,  ice-cream, 
and  fruit  in  the  open  air.  At  the  sight  of  the  cart,  we 
manifested  an  uproarious  303^ ;  for  it  was  considered  a  great 
treat  to  drink  tea  in  the  woods  on  the  grass,  and  especially 
in  a  place  where  nobody  had  ел'ег  drunk  tea  before. 

Turka  came  to  this  little  meadow-encircled  wood,  halted, 
listened  attentively  to  papa's  minute  directions  how  to  get 
into  line,  and  where  to  sally  forth  (he  never  minded  these 
directions,  however,  and  did  what  seemed  good  to  him),  un- 
coupled the  dogs,  arranged  the  straps  in  a  leisurely  manner, 
mounted  his  horse,  and  disappeared  behind  the  j'oung  birches. 
The  first  thing  the  hounds  did  on  being  released  was  to 
express  their  joy  by  wagging  their  tails,  shaking  themselves, 
putting  themselves  in  order  ;  and  then,  after  a  little  scamper, 
they  smelled  each  other,  wagged  their  tails  again,  and  set  off 
in  various  directions. 

'•  Have  you  a  handkerchief?"  asked  papa. 

I  pulled  one  from  my  pocket,  and  showed  it  to  him. 


28  CHILDnOOD. 

"  Well,  take  that  grny  do^  on  ycmv  linndkerchief  " — 

''Zhirao?"  1  inquired  with  a  knowing  air. 

"  Yes  ;  and  run  along  the  road.  AVlien  you  come  to  a 
little  meadow,  stop  '^uO^  look  about  you  ;  don't  come  back  to 
nie  without  a  hare." 

I  wound  тз'  handkerchief  about  Zhiran's  shagg}-  neck, 
and  started  at  a  headlong  pace  for  the  spot  indicated  to  me. 
Va\)ii  laughed  and  called  after  me  : 

"  Faster,  faster,  or  you'll  be  too  late." 

Zhiran  kept  halting,  pricking  up  his  ears,  and  listening  to 
the  sounds  of  the  hunt.  I  had  not  the  strength  to  drag  him 
from  the  spot,  and  I  began  to  shout,  "Catch  him!  catch 
him  i  "  Then  Zhiran  tore  awa}'  with  such  force  that  I  could 
hardly  hold  him,  and  I  fell  down  more  than  once  before  1 
reached  my  post.  .Selecting  a  shady  and  level  place  at  the 
root  of  a  lofty  oak,  I  lay  down  on  the  grass,  placed  Zhiran 
beside  me.  and  waited.  My  imagination,  as  always  happens 
in  such  cases,  far  outran  realit}'.  I  fancied  that  I  was 
already  coursing  my  third  hare,  when  the  first  hound  burst 
from  the  woods.  Turka's  voice  rang  loudly  and  Avith  anima- 
tion through  the  forest ;  the  hound  was  whinipei'ing,  and  its 
voice  was  more  and  more  frequently  audible.  Another  voice, 
a  bass,  joined  in,  then  a  third  and  a  fourth.  These  voices 
ceased,  and  again  they  interrupted  each  other.  The  sounds 
grew  gradually  louder  and  more  unbroken,  and  at  length 
merged  into  one  ringing,  all-pervading  roar.  The  meadow- 
encircled  clump  of  trees  was  one  mass  of  sound,  and  the 
hounds  were  burning  with  impatience. 

When  I  heard  that,  I  stiffened  at  ray  post.  Fixing  my 
eyes  upon  the  edge  of  the  woods,  1  smiled  foolishly  ;  the  per- 
spiration poured  from  me  in  streams,  and  although  the  drops 
tickled  me  as  they  ran  down  my  chin,  I  did  not  wipe  them 
Oil'.  It  seemed  to  me  that  nothing  could  be  more  decisive 
t!!an  this  moment.  This  attitude  of  expectancy  Avas  too  un- 
natural to  last  long.  The  hounds  poured  into  the  edge  of 
the  woods,  then  the}"  retreated  from  me  ;  there  was  no  hare. 
I  began  to  look  about.  Zhiran  was  in  the  same  state  ;  at 
tirst  he  tugged  and  whimpered,  then  la}'  down  beside  me, 
put  his  nose  upon  my  knees  and  became  quiet. 

Around  the  bare  roots  of  the  oak  tree  under  which  I  sat, 
upon  the  gray,  parched  earth,  amid  the  withered  oak-leaves, 
acorns,  dry  moss-grown  sticks,  yellowisli-green  moss,  and 
the  liiin  green  bhuk's  of  grass  which  pushed  their  way  through 


CniLDHOOD.  29 

here  and  there,  ants  swarmed  in  countless  numbers.  They 
hurried  after  each  other  along  the  thorny  paths  which  they 
had  themselves  prepared  ;  sou)e  with  burdens,  some  unladen. 
]  picked  up  an  acorn,  and  obstructed  their  way  with  it.  You 
should  Ьал'е  seen  how  some,  despising  the  obstacle,  climbed 
over  it,  while  others,  especially  those  who  bad  loads,  quite 
lost  their  heads  and  did  not  know  what  to  do  ;  they  halted 
aud  hunted  for  a  path,  or  turned  back,  or  crawled  upon  my 
hand  from  the  acorn,  with  the  intention,  apparentl}^  of  get- 
ting under  the  sleeve  of  my  jacket.  I  was  diverted  from 
tiiese  interesting  observations  by  a  butterfly  with  yellow 
Avings,  which  hoA'ered  before  me  in  an  extremely  attractive 
manner.  No  sooner  had  I  directed  my  attention  to  it  than 
it  flew  алуау  a  couple  of  paces,  circled  about  a  nearly-  wilted 
head  of  wild  white  clover,  and  settled  upon  it.  1  do  not 
know  whether  it  was  warming  itself  in  the  sun,  or  drawing 
the  sap  fi'om  this  weed,  but  it  was  evident  that  it  was  enjoy- 
ing itself.  Now  aud  then  it  fluttered  its  wings  and  ])ressed 
closer  to  the  flower,  and  at  last  becauie  perfectl}'  still.  I 
propped  ni}'  head  on  both  bauds  and  gazed  at  it  with  pleasure. 

All  at  once,  Zhiran  began  to  howl,  and  tugged  with  such 
force  that  I  nearly  fell  over.  I  glanced  about.  Along  the 
skirt  of  the  woods  ski[)ped  a  hare,  with  one  ear  droo]:)ing, 
the  other  raised.  The  blood  rushed  to  my  head,  aud.  for- 
getting every  tiling  for  the  moment,  I  shouted  something  in 
a  Avild  voice,  loosed  my  dog,  and  set  out  to  run.  But  no 
sooner  had  I  done  this  than  my  repentance  began.  The  hare 
squatted,  gaA'e  a  leap,  and  I  saw  no  more  of  him. 

But  what  was  my  mortification,  when,  following  the 
hounds,  who  came  baying  down  to  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
Turka  made  his  appearance  from  behind  a  bush  !  He  per- 
ceived my  mistake  (Avhich  consisted  in  not  Jiolding  rntt),  and 
casting  a  scornful  glance  u]^on  me,  he  mereh' said,  '■^  Eh^ 
b((n'n!"^  But  you  should  have  heard  how  he  said  it.  It 
would  Ьал'е  been  pleasanter  for  me  if  he  had  hung  me  to 
his  saddle  like  a  hare. 

For  a  long  time  I  stood  in  deep  despair  on  the  same  sj)ot. 
I  did  not  call  the  dog,  and  only  repeated  as  1  beat  my  thighs, 
"  Heavens,  what  have  I  done  !  " 

I  heard  the  hounds  coursing  in  the  distance  ;  I  heard  them 
give  tongue  on  the  other  side  of  the  лvood-island,  and  kill  a 
hare,  and  Turka  summoning  the  dogs  with  his  long  whip  : 
but  stilh  1  did  not  stir  from  the  spot, 

1  Ma^iter, 


30  CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

GAMES. 

TiiK  hunt  was  at  an  end.  Л  cloth  was  spread  under  the 
shadow  of  the  young  birches,  and  the  whole  company  seated 
themselves  around  it.  Gavrilo,  the  butler,  having  trodden 
down  the  lush  green  grass  aliout  him.  wiped'  the  plates,  and 
emptied  the  baskets  of  the  plums  and  peaches  wrapped  in 
leaA'es.  The  sun  shone  through  the  green  branches  of  the 
young  birches,  and  cast  round  quivering  gleams  upon  the 
patterns  of  the  tablecloth,  upon  my  feet,  and  even  upon 
Gavrilo's  polished  perspiring  hetid.  A  light  breeze  flutter- 
ing through  the  leaves,  upon  my  hair  and  my  streaming  face, 
was  ver}-  refreshing. 

When  we  had  divided  the  ices  and  fruits,  there  was  noth- 
ing more  to  be  done  at  the  cloth  ;  and  in  spite  of  the  sun's 
scorching,  oblique  rays,  we  rose  and  began  to  play. 

"Nov,-,  what  shall  it  be?"  said  Liubotchka,  blinking  in 
the  sun,  and  dancing  up  and  down  upon  the  grass.  "  Let 
us  have  Robinson  !  " 

"No,  it's  tiresome,"  said  Volodya,  rolling  lazil}' on  the 
turf,  and  chewing  a  leaf  :  ''  it's  eternally  Robinson  !  If  you 
insist  upon  it,  though,  let's  build  an  аг1юг." 

Volodya  was  evidently  putting  on  airs  :  it  must  have  been 
because  he  was  proud  of  having  ridden  the  hunter,  and  he 
feigned  to  be  л'^ег}'  much  fatigued.  Possibly  also,  he  had 
too  much  sound  sense,  and  too  little  force  of  imagination, 
to  fully  enjoy  a  game  of  Robinson.  This  game  consisted  in 
acting  a  scene  from  the  "  Robinsou  Suisse,"  ^  which  we  had 
read  not  long  before. 

"  Now,  please  .  .  .  wh}"  won't  you  do  this  to  please  us?  " 
persisted  the  girls.  "  You  shall  be  Charles  or  Ernest  or  tlie 
father,  whichever  you  like,"  said  Katenka,  trying  to  pull  him 
from  the  ground  b}'  the  sleeves  of  his  jacket. 

'  The  Swiss  Family  llobineoii. 


CTIILDIIOOD.  31 

"I  really  don't  want  to:  it's  tiresome,"  said  Volodya, 
stretching  himself  and  smiling  iu  a  self-satisfied  way. 

"  It's  better  to  stay  at  home  if  nobody  wants  to  play," 
declared  Liubotchka  through  her  tears. 

She  was  a  horrible  cry-baby. 

"  Come  along,  then  ;  only  please  don't  cry.  I  can't  stand 
it." 

Volod^'a's  condescension  afforded  us  but  very  little  satis- 
faction :  on  the  contrary,  his  bored  and  lazy  look  destroyed 
all  the  illusion  of  the  play.  AVhen  we  sat  down  on  tlie 
ground,  and,  imagining  that  we  were  setting  out  on  a  fishing 
expedition,  began  to  row  with  all  our  might,  Volodya  sat 
with  folded  hands,  and  in  an  attitude  which  had  nothing  in 
connnon  with  the  attitude  of  a  fisherman.  I  remarked  on 
this  to  him  ;  but  he  retorted  that  we  should  gain  nothing 
and  do  no  good  by  either  a  greater  or  less  flourish  of  hands, 
and  should  not  travel  an^'  farther.  1  involuntarily  agreed 
with  him.  AVhen  I  made  believe  go  hunting  with  a  stick  on 
my  shoulder,  and  took  m}^  wa}'  to  the  woods',  Volod3'a  lay 
down  flat  on  his  back,  with  his  hands  under  his  head,  and 
said  it  was  all  the  same  as  though  he  went  too.  Such 
speeches  and  behavior  cooled  us  towards  this  game,  and 
were  extremely  unpleasant ;  the  more  so,  as  it  '^^as  impossible 
not  to  admit  in  one's  own  mind  that  Volodya  was  behaving 
sensibly. 

I  knew  myself  that  not  only  could  I  not  )-ill  a  bird  with 
my  stick,  but  that  it  was  impossilile  to  fii'c  it  off.  That  was 
what  the  game  consisted  in.  If  you  judge  tinngs  in  that 
fashion,  then  it  is  impossible  to  ride  on  chairs  ;  hut,  thought' 
I,  Volodya  himself  must  remember  how,  on  Jong  winter 
evenings,  we  covered  an  ai'mchair  with  a  cloth,  hvd  made  a 
calash  out  of  it,  while  one  mounted  as  coachman,  the  other 
as  footman,  and  the  girls  sat  in  the  middle,  Avitli  thre«  chairs 
for  a  troika  of  horses,  and  we  set  out  on  a  journey.  And 
how  many  adventures  hai)pened  on  the  way  !  and  how  mer- 
rily and  swiftly  the  winter  evenings  passed  !  Judging  by  the 
present  standard,  there  would  be  no  games.  And  if  there 
are  no  games,  what  is  left? 


32  CUILDUOOD. 


СН АРТЕК   IX. 

SOMETHING    IN    THE    XATUUE    OF    FIRST    LOVE. 

Pretexding  that  she  was  plucking  some  American  fruits 
from  a  tree,  Liubotclika  tore  off  a  leaf  with  a  huge  caterpillar 
on  it,  flung  it  on  the  ground  in  terror,  raised  her  hands,  and 
sprang  back  as  though  she  feared  that  something  would 
spout  out  of  it.  The  game  came  to  an  end  :  we  all  flung 
ourselves  down  on  the  ground  with  our  heads  together,  to 
gaze  at  this  curiosit}'. 

I  looked  over  Katenka's  shoulder  :  she  was  trying  to  pick 
the  worm  up  on  a  leaf  which  she  placed  in  its  wa}-. 

I  had  ol)served  that  many  girls  have  a  trick  of  tAvisting 
their  shoulders,  endeavoring  liy  this  movement  to  bring  back 
their  low-necked  dresses.  Avhich  have  slipped  down,  to  their 
proper  place.  I  remember  that  this  motion  always  made 
Mimi  angry:  "It  is  the  gesture  of  a  chambermaid,"  she 
said.  Kateuka  made  this  motion  as  she  bent  over  the 
worm,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  wind  raised  her  kerchief 
from  her  Avhite  neck.  Her  little  shoulder  was  within  two 
fingers'  length  of  ni}^  lips.  I  no  longer  looked  at  the  worm  : 
I  stared  and  stared  at  Katenka's  shoulder,  and  kissed  it  with 
all  my  might.  She  did  not  turn  round,  but  I  noticed  that 
her  cheeks  crimsoned  up  to  her  л^егу  ears.  Volodya  did  not 
raise  his  head,  but  said  scornfully: 

'•^  What  tenderness  !  " 

The  tears  came  into  my  eyes. 

I  never  took  my  eyes  from  Katenka.  I  had  long  been 
used  to  her  fresh  little  blonde  face,  and  I  had  always  loved 
it.  But  now  I  began  to  observe  it  more  attentiveh',  and  I 
liked  it  still  better.  When  we  went  back  to  the  grown-up 
people,  papa  announced,  to  our  great  joy.  that,  at  mamma's 
request,  our  departure  was  postponed  until  the  following  day. 

We  rode  back  in  company  Avith  the  carriage.  Volodya 
and  I,  desirous  of  outdoing  each  other  in  the  art  of  horse- 


CniLDIIOOD.  33 

manship  and  in  boldness,  galloped  around  it.  INIy  sliadow 
was  longer  than  before,  and,  judging  from  it,  I  imagined 
that  I  must  present  tlie  effect  of  a  very  tine  rider ;  but  the 
feeling  of  self-satisfaction  wliich  I  experienced  was  speedily 
destroyed  by  the  following  circumstance.  Desiring  to  com- 
pletely fascinate  all  who  rode  in  the  carriage,  I  fell  behind  a 
little  ;  then,  with  the  assistance  of  my  whip,  I  started  my 
horse  forwai'd,  and  assumed  an  attitude  of  careless  grace, 
with  the  intention  of  dashing  past  them  like  a  whirlwind  on 
the  side  Avhere  Katenka  sat.  The  only  point  I  was  in  doubt 
about  was  :  would  it  be  better  to  gallop  by  in  silence,  or  to 
cry  out?  But  the  hateful  horse  came  to  a  standstill  so  un- 
expectedly when  he  came  up  with  the  carriage-horses,  that  I 
flew  over  the  saddle  upon  his  neck,  and  almost  tumbled  off 
his  back. 


34  VUILJJIIOOI). 


CHAPTER  X. 

WHAT    KIND    OP    A    MAN    "W  .S    MY    FATHER? 

He  was  a  mau  of  the  last  century,  and  possessed  that 
indeiuiable  chivahy  of  character  which  was  common  to  the 
youth  of  that  period.  He  looked  with  disdain  upon  the 
people  of  the  present  century ;  and  this  view  proceeded 
quite  as  much  from  innate  pride  as  from  a  secret  feeling  of 
vexation  that  he  could  not  wield  tliat  influence  or  enjoy  those 
successes  in  our  age  which  he  had  enjo3'ed  iu  his  own.  His 
two  principal  passions  in  life  were  cards  and  women  :  he 
had  won  several  millions  during  his  lifetime,  and  had  had 
liaisons  with  an  innumerable  number  of  women  of  all  classes. 

A  tall,  stately  figure,  a  strange,  tripping  gait,  a  habit  of 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  little  eyes  which  were  always  smil- 
ing, a  large  aquiline  nose,  irregular  lips  which  closed  awk- 
wardly but  agreeably,  a  defect  in  speech  resulting  in  a  lisp, 
and  a  large  bald  spot  extending  all  over  his  head — such 
was  my  father's  appearance  from  the  time  I  first  recollect 
him,  —  an  appearance  by  means  of  which  he  not  only  man- 
aged to  make  the  reputation  of  a  man  й  bonnes  fortunes,  but 
to  be  so,  and  to  please  every  one  without  exception,  —  people 
of  all  classes  and  conditions,  and  especially  those  whom 
he  desired  to  please. 

,^e  understood  how  to  get  the  upper  hand  in  all  his  deal- 
ings. Without  ever  ha\4ng  been  a  member  of  the  very  hiijh- 
est  societi],  he  had  always  had  intercourse  with  individuals 
belonging  to  that  circle,  and  of  such  a  sort  that  he  was 
always  respected.  He  understood  that  extreme  measure  of 
pride  and  self-confidence  which,  without  offending  others, 
raised  him  in  the  estimation  of  the  world.  He  was  original, 
though  not  always,  and  employed  his  originality  as  an  in- 
sti'ument  which  in  some  cases  takes  the  place  of  worldly 
wisdom  or  wealth.  Nothing  in  the  world  could  arouse  in 
him  a  sensation  of  Avonder :  however  brilliant  his  position, 
be  seemed  born  to  it.      He  understood  so  well  how  to  hide 


CniLDHOOD.  35 

from  others,  and  put  away  from  himself,  that  dark  side  of 
life  which  is  familiar  to  every  one,  and  filled  with  petty 
vexations  and  griefs,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to  envy  him. 

He  was  a  connoisseur  of  all  things  which  afford  comfort 
or  pleasure,  and  understood  how  to  make  use  of  them.  His 
hobb}'  was  his  brilliant  couuectioiis,  which  lie  possessed 
parti}"  through  my  mother^s~reIation;s  and  partly  through  the 
companions  of  his  youth,  with  whom  he  was  secretly  en- 
raged, because  they  had  all  risen  to  high  official  positions, 
while  he  had  remained  oul}'  a  retired  lieutenant  in  the 
Guards,  ^Like  all  men  who  have  once  been  in  the  army,  he 
did  not  know  how  to  dress  fashionably :  nevertheless,  his 
dress  was  original  and  elegant)  His  clothes  were  always 
very  loose  and  light,  his  linen  of  the  most  beautiful  quality, 
his  large  cuffs  and  collars  were  turned  back.  And  it  all 
suited  his  tall  figure,  his  muscular  build,  his  bald  head,  and 
his  calm,  self-confident  movements.  He  was  sensitive,  and 
even  easily  moved  to  tears.  Often,  when  he  came  to  a 
pathetic  place  while  reading  aloud,  his  voice  would  begin  to 
tremble,  the  tears  would  come  ;  and  he  would  drop  the  book 
in  A'exation.  He  loved  music,  and  sang,  to  his  own  piano 
accompaniment,  the  romances  of  his  friend  A.,  g.ypsy  songs, 
and  some  airs  from  the  operas  ;  but  he  did  not  like  scientific 
music,  and  said  frankly,  without  heeding  the  general  opin- 
ion, that  Beethoven's  sonatas  drove  him  to  sleep  and  enmd; 
and  that  "lie  кпелу  nothing  finer  than  "  Wake  the  3'oung  girl 
not,"  as  sung  b}'  Madame  Semenova,  and  "  Not  alone,"  as 
gypsy  Taniuscha  sang  it.  His  nature  was  one  of  those  to 
whose  good  deeds  a  i)ul)lic  is  indispensable.  And  he  only 
considered  that  good  which  was  so  reckoned  by  the  public. 
God  knows  whether  he  had  an}-  moral  convictions.  His  life 
was  so  full  of  passions  of  every  sort,  that  he  never  had  any 
time  to  make  an  inventory  of  them,  and  he  was  so  happy  in 
his  life  that  he  saw  no  necessity  for  so  doing. 

A  fixed  opinion  on  things  generally,  and  unalterable  prin- 
ciples, formulated  themselves  in  his  mind  as  he  grew  older 
—  but  solely  on  practical  grounds.  Those  deeds  and  that 
manner  of  life  which  procured  him  happiness  and  pleasure, 
he  considered  good  ;  and  he  thought  that  every  one  should 
always  do  the  same.  He  talked  very  persuasively  ;  and  thir? 
quality,  it  seems  to  me,  heightened  the  flexibility  of  his 
pi'incii)les  :  he  was  cnpable  of  depicting  the  same  act  as  a 
charming  bit  of  mischief,  or  as  a  [)iece  of  low-lived  vilhuiy. 


36  CHILDUOOI). 


CHAPTER  XI. 

OCCUPATIONS    IX    THE    LIBKAKY    AND    THE    DRAWIXG-KOOM. 

It  was  already  dark  when  we  reached  home.  Mamma 
seated  herself  at  the  piano,  and  we  children  fetched  our 
paper,  pencils,  and  paints,  and  settled  ourselves  about  the 
round  table  at  our  drawing.  I  had  onl}-  blue  i>aint ;  never- 
theless, I  undertook  to  depict  the  hunt.  After  representing, 
in  very  lively  style,  a  blue  bo}'  mounted  on  a  blue  horse,  and 
some  blue  dogs,  I  was  not  quite  sure  whether  I  could  paint 
a  blue  hare,  and  ran  to  papa  in  his  stud}'  to  take  advice  on 
the  matter.  Papa  was  reading  ;  and  in  answer  to  my  ques- 
tion, "Are  there  any  blue  hares?"  he  said,  without  raising 
his  head,  "Yes,  my  dear,  there  are."  I  went  back  to  the 
round  table,  and  painted  a  blue  hare  ;  then  I  found  it  neces- 
sary to  turn  the  blue  hare  into  a  bush.  The  luish  did  not 
please  me  either ;  I  turned  it  into  a  tree,  and  the  tree  into 
a  stack  of  hay.  and  the  haystack  into  a  cloud  ;  and  finally 
I  blotted  my  whole  paper  so  with  blue  paint,  that  I  tore  it 
up  in  vexation,  and  Avent  to  dozing  in  the  l)ig  arm-chair. 

Mamma  was  playing  the  Second  Concerto  of  Field  —  her 
teacher.  I  dreamed,  and  light,  bright,  transparent  recollec- 
tions penetrated  my  imagination.  8he  played  Beethoven's 
Sonata  Pathetique,  and  my  memories  became  painful,  dark, 
burdensome.  Mamma  often  })layed  those  two  pieces  ;  there- 
fore I  Avell  remember  the  feeling  which  they  aroused  in  me. 
It  resembled  memories:  but  memories  of  what?  I  seemed 
to  remember  something  which  had  never  happened. 

Opposite  ine  was  the  door  into  the  study,  and  I  saw  Yakov 
enter,  and  some  other  people  wijji  caftans  and  beards. 
The  door  immediately  closed  behind  them.  "  Now  business 
lias  begun  !  "  I  thought.  It  seemed  to  me  that  nothing  in 
the  world  could  be  more  important  than  the  l)usiness  wliich 
was  being  transacted  in  that  study;  this  idea  of  mine  was 
coutirmed  by  the  fact  that  all  who  entered  the  study  door 


CniLBHOOD,  37 

did  SO  on  tiptoe  and  exchanging  whispers.  Papa's  loud 
voice  was  audible  ;  and  the  smell  of  cigars,  which  always 
attracted  me  very  much,  I  know  not  why,  was  perceptible. 
ЛИ  at  once,  I  was  much  surprised  in  my  half  slumber  by 
the  familiar  squeak  of  boots  in  the  butler's  pantry.  Kai'l 
Ivanitch  walked  up  to  the  door  on  tiptoe,  but  with  a  gloomy 
and  decided  countenance,  and  some  papers  in  his  hand, 
and  knocked  lightl}'.  He  was  admitted,  and  the  door  was 
slammed  again. 

''Some  misfortune  must  have  happened,"  I  thought. 
"Karl  Ivanitch  is  angry:  he  is  ready  for  any  thing." 

And  again  I  fell  into  a  doze. 

But  no  misfortune  had  occurred.  In  about  an  hour,  the 
same  squeaking  boots  woke  me  up.  Karl  Ivanitch  emerged 
from  the  door,  wiping  away  the  tears  which  I  espied  on  his 
clieeks,  with  his  handkerchief,  and  went  up-stairs,  muttering 
something  to  himself.  Papa  came  out  after  him,  and  en- 
tered the  drawing-room. 

"  Do  you  know  what  I  have  just  decided  upon?  "  he  said 
in  a  gay  voice,  laying  his  hand  on  mamma's  shoulder. 

"  What  is  it,  my  dear?  " 

"  I  shall  take  Karl  Ivanitch  with  the  children.  There  is 
room  for  him  in  the  britchka.  They  are  used  to  him,  and  it 
seems  that,  he  is  very  much  attached  to  them  ;  and  seven 
I  :r.4li'ed  .ubles  a  year  does  not  count  for  much  :  and  then  he 
IS  a  very  good  sort  of  fellow  at  bottom." 

I  never  could  understand  why  })ai)a  scolded  Karl  Ivanitch. 

"  I  am  л^егу  glad,"  said  mamma,  "  both  for  the  children's 
sake  and  for  his  :  he  is  a  fine  old  fellow." 

"  If  3'ou  could  only  have  seen  how  much  affected  he  was 
when  I  told  him  that  he  was  to  keep  the  five  hundred  rubles  as 
a  gift !  But  the  most  amusing  thing  of  all  is  this  account 
which  he  brought  me.  It's  worth  looking  at,"  he  added 
with  a  smile,  handing  her  a  list  in  Karl  Ivanitch's  hand- 
writing :   "it  was  delightful." 

This  was  what  the  list  contained  :  — 

"  Two  fish-hooks  for  the  children,  seventy  kopeks. 

"  Colored  paper,  gold  binding,  a  press  and  stretcher  for  a 
little  box  for  a  present,  ^ix  rul)les  fifty-five  kopeks. 

"Books  and  bows,  presents  to  the  children,  eight  rubles 
sixteen  kopeks. 

"  Trousers  for  Nikolai,  four  rubles. 

"^lie    gold    watch    promised    by    Piotr   Alexandrovitch, 


38  CHILDHOOD. 

to  Ъе  got  from  Moscow  in  18 — ,  one  hundred  and  forty 
rubles. 

''Total  due  Karl  Mauer,  above  his  salary,  one  hundred 
and  fifty-nine  rubles  seventj'-nine  kopeks." 

After  reading  this  list,  in  which  Karl  Ivauitch  demanded 
payment  of  all  the  sums  which  he  had  expended  for  presents, 
and  even  the  price  of  the  gifts  promised  to  himself,  any 
one  would  think  that. Karl  Ivanitch  was  nothing  more  than 
an  unfeeling,  covetous  egoist  —  and  he  would  be  very  much 
mistaken. 

When  he  entered  the  study  with  this  account  in  his  hand, 
and  a  speech  ready  prepared  in  his  head,  he  intended  to  set 
forth  eloquently'  before  papa  all  that  he  had  endured  in 
our  house;  but  when  he  began  to  speak  in  that  touching 
voice,  and  with  the  feeling  intonations  луЬ1сЬ  he  usually 
employed  when  dictating  to  us,  his  eloquence  acted  most 
powerfully  on  himself  ;  so  that  when  he  reached  the  place 
where  he  said,  "Painful  as  it  is  to  me  to  part  from  the 
children,"  he  became  utterly  confused,  his  voice  trembled, 
and  he  was  forced  to  pull  his  checked  handkerchief  from  his 
pocket. 

"Yes,  Piolr  Alexandritch,"  he  said  through  his  tears 
(this  passage  did  not  occur  in  the  prepared  speech):  "I 
have  become  so  used  to  the  children,  that  I  do  not  know 
what  I  shall  do  without  them.  It  will  be  better  for  me  to 
serve  you  without  salary,"  he  added,  wiping  away  his  tears 
■with  one  hand,  and  presenting  the  bill  with  the  other. 

That  Karl  b^anitch  was  sincere  Avhen  he  spoke  thus,  I  can 
affirm  Vvith  authority,  for  I  know  his  kind  heart ;  but  how  he 
reconciled  that  account  with  his  words,  remains  a  mystery 
to  me. 

"If  it  is  painful  for  you,  it  would  be  still  more  painful 
for  me  to  part  with  you,"  said  papa,  tapping  him  on  the 
shoulder.     "  I  have  changed  my  mind." 

Not  long  before  supper  Grischa  entered  the  room.  From 
the  moment  he  had  come  to  the  house,  he  had  not  ceased  to 
sigh  and  weep  ;  which,  according  to  the  opinion  of  those  who 
believed  in  his  power  of  prophecy,  presaged  some  evil  to  our 
house.  He  began  to  take  leave,  and  said  that  he  should 
proceed  farther  the  next  morning.  I  winked  at  Volodya, 
and  went  out. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  If  you  want  to  see  Grischa's  chains,  let's  go  np-stairs  to 


CHILDHOOD.  39 

the  men's  rooms  immediately.  Grischa  sleeps  in  the  second 
chamber.  ЛУе  can  sit  in  the  garret  perfectly  well,  and  see 
every  thing." 

"  Splendid  !     Wait  here  ;  I'll  call  the  girls." 
The  girls  ran  out,  and  we  betook  ourselves  up-stairs.     It 
was  settled,  not  Avithout  some  disputing,  however,  who  was 
to  go  first  into  the  dark  garret ;  and  we  sat  down  and  waited. 


40  ClIILDUOOD. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

GRISCHA. 

The  darkness  oppressed  all  of  us :  we  pressed  close  to 
each  other,  aud  did  uot  speak.  Grischa  followed  us  almost 
immediately,  witli  his  quiet  steps.  In  one  hand  he  carried 
his  staff,  in  the  other  a  tallow  caudle  in  a  brass  candlestick. 
We  held  our  breaths. 

''  Lord  Jesus  Christ !  Most  Holy  Mother  of  God  !  Father, 
Son,  and  Holy  Ghost!"  he  repeated  several  times,  with 
A'arious  intonations  and  abbrcAnations  which  are  peculiar  to 
those  only  who  repeat  these  words  often,  as  he  drew  the  air 
into  his  lungs. 

Having  placed  his  staff  in  the  corner,  and  inspected  his 
bed  during  his  prayer,  he  began  to  undress.  He  unfastened 
his  old  black  belt,  removecl  his  tattered  nankeen  smock, 
folded  it  carefully,  and  laid  it  over  the  back  of  a  chair.  His 
face  did  not  now  express  haste  and  stupidit}',  as  usual :  on 
the  contrary,  it  was  composed,  melancholy,  and  even  majes- 
tic.    His  movements  were  deliberate  and  thoughtful. 

Clad  in  his  underclothes  alone,  he  sank  gently  down  upon 
the  bed,  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  it  on  all  sides, 
aud  with  an  evident  effort  (for  he  frowned)  he  adjusted  the 
chains  beneath  his  shirt.  After  sitting  there  a  Avhile  and 
anxiously  examining  several  rents  in  his  linen,  he  rose, 
lifted  the  candlestick  on  a  level  with  the  shrine  in  the 
corner,  which  contained  several  images,  repeating  a  prayer 
meantime,  crossed  himself  before  them,  and  turned  the 
candle  upside  down.     It  sputtered  and  went  out. 

The  moon,  which  was  almost  full,  shone  in  through  the 
window,  looking  towards  the  forest.  The  long  wdiite  figure 
of  the  fool  was  illuminated  on  one  side  by  the  pale,  silvery 
rays  of  the  moon  :  on  the  other  it  was  in  deep  shadow  ;  it 
feil  on  tlie  floor  and  walls,  and  reached  to  the  ceiling  in  com- 
pany with  the  sliadows  from  the  window-frame.  Tlie  watch- 
inau  knocked  (>n  the  copper  plate  in  the  court-yard. 


CniLDIIOOB.  41 

Grischa  folded  his  huge  arras  across  his  breast,  bent  his 
head,  sighing  heavil3%  and  without  intermission,  and  stood 
in  silence  before  the  images  ;  then  he  knelt,  with  some  diffi- 
culty, and  began  to  pray. 

At  first  he  softly  recited  the  familiar  praj-ers,  merely  ac- 
centuating certain  words  ;  then  he  repeated  them,  but  in  a 
loud  voice,  and  with  much  animation.  He  began  to  employ 
his  own  words,  endeavoring,  with  evident  effort,  to  express 
himself  in  Slavic  st^de.  His  words  were  incoherent  but 
touching.  He  prayed  for  all  his  benefactors  (as  he  called 
those  who  entertained  him),  among  them  mamma,  and  us; 
he  praj^ed  for  himself,  besought  God  to  forgive  him  his 
grievous  sins,  and  said:  ''O  God,  forgive  my  enemies!" 
He  rose  with  a  groan,  and,  repeating  the  same  words  over 
and  over,  he  fell  to  the  ground  again,  and  again  rose,  not- 
withstanding the  weight  of  the  chains,  which  emitted  a  harsh, 
sharp  sound  as  they  struck  the  floor. 

Volodya  gave  me  a  painful  pinch  on  my  foot,  but  I  did 
not  even  look  round  :  I  merely  rubbed  the  spot  with  one 
hand,  and  continued  to  observe  all  Grischa's  words  and 
motions  wnth  a  sentiment  of  childish  wonder,  pit}',  and  rev- 
erence. 

Instead  of  the  merriment  and  laughter,  upon  which  I  had 
reckoned  when  I  entered  the  garret,  I  felt  a  trembling  and 
sinking  at  m}'  heart. 

Grischa  remained  in  this  state  of  religious  exaltation  for  a 
long  time,  and  improvised  prayers.  He  repeated  '-'•Lord 
have  viercy,"  several  times  in  succession,  but  each  time  with 
fresh  force  and  expression.  Then  he  said:  '■'■  Forgive  we, 
Lord;  teach  me  ivhat  I  should  do  ;  tench  me  what  I  shoidd  do, 
Lord!'"  with  an  expression  as  though  he  expected  an  im- 
mediate response  to  his  words  ;  then  several  lamentable  groans 
were  audible.  He  rose  to  his  knees,  crossed  his  hands  upon 
his  breast,  and  became  silent. 

I  put  my  head  softly  out  of  the  door,  and  held  my  breath. 
Grischa  did  not  stir  ;  heavy  sighs  forced  themselves  from  his 
breast ;  a  tear  stood  in  tiie  dim  pupil  of  his  blind  eye,  which 
was  illuminated  by  the  moon. 

"Thy  will  be  done!  "  he  cried  suddenly,  with  an  inde- 
scribable expression,  fell  лvith  his  forehead  to  the  floor,  and 
sobbed  like  a  child. 

A  long  time  has  passed  since  then  ;  many  memories  of  the 
past  have  lost  all  significance  for  me,  and  have  become  like 


42  CniLDUOOD. 

confused  visions  ;  even  pilgrim  Grischa  has  long  ago  taken 
his  last  journey  :  but  the  impression  which  he  made  upon 
me,  and  the  feeling  which  he  awakened,  will  never  die  out 
of  my  memoiy. 

О  great  Christian  Grischa !  Thy  faith  was  so__  strong, 
that  thou  didst  feel  the  nearness  of  God  ;  thy  love  was  so 
great,  tliat  thy  words  poured  from  thy  lips  of  themselves,  — 
thou  didst  not  revise  them  with  thy  judgment.  And  what 
lofty  praise  didst  thou  offer  to  His  majesty,  when,  finding  no 
words,  thou  didst  tling  thyself  to  the  earth  in  tears ! 

The  emotion  with  which  I  listened  to  Grischa  could  not 
last  long ;  in  the  first  place,  because  my  curiosity  was  satis- 
fied, and,  in  the  second,  because  my  legs  were  stiff  with 
sitting  in  one  position,  and  I  wanted  to  join  in  the  general 
whispering  and  movement  which  was  audible  behind  me  in 
the  dark  garret.  Some  one  caught  my  hand,  and  said, 
"  Whose  hand  is  this?  "  It  was  perfectly  dark,  but  I  imme- 
diately recognized  Katenka  by  the  touch  of  the  hand,  and 
by  the  voice  which  was  just  above  my  ear. 

It  was  quite  without  premeditation  that  I  gi'asped  her  arm, 
on  which  the  sleeve  reached  only  to  the  elbow,  and  raised 
it  to  my  lips.  Katenka  was  evidently  surprised  at  this,  and 
pulled  her  hand  away  :  this  movement  caused  her  to  strike 
a  broken  chair  which  stood  in  the  garret.  Grischa  raised 
his  head,  glanced  quietly  about,  repeating  a  prayer,  and 
began  to  make  the  sign  of  the  cross  on  all  the  corners. 
We  ran  out  of  the  garret  whispering,  and  making  a  great 
commotion. 


CniLDHOOB.  45 

'  ^r  knitting 
*oom 


CHAPTER   ХШ. 

NATALYA    SAVISCHNA. 

About  the  middle  of  the  last  century,  a  plump,  red- 
clieeked,  barefooted,  but  merry  girl,  Natasehka,  used  to 
run  about  the  court-yard  in  the  village  of  Khabarovka  in  a 
tattered  dress.  My  grandfather  had  taken  her  upstairs  as, 
one  of  grandmother's  female  servants,  on  account  of  the  ser- 
vices of  her  father  Нал'Л'а,  and  at  his  request.  Natasehka, 
as  a  maid,  was  distinguished  for  her  gentleness  of  nature, 
and  her  zeal.  When  mamma  was  born,  and  a  nurse  was 
required,  this  service  was  intrusted  to  Natasehka;  and  in 
this  new  career  she  won  both  praises  and  rewards  for  her 
activit}',  faithfulness,  and  attachment  to  her  3'oung  mistress. 

But  the  powdered  head,  stockings,  and  buckles  of  the 
stout  young  butler  Foka,  who,  in  virtue  of  his  office,  was 
often  brought  in  contact  with  Natalya,  captivated  her  rough 
but  loving  heart.  She  even  made  up  her  mind  to  go  herself 
to  grandfather,  and  ask  permission  to  marr^^  Foka.  Grand- 
father looked  upon  her  request  as  ingratitude,  turned  her 
away,  and  sent  poor  Natalya  to  tlie  cattle-farm,  in  a  village 
of  the  steppe,  to  punish  her.  But  within  six  months  Na- 
talya was  restoi'ed  to  her  former  duty,  since  no  one  could  fill 
her  place.  On  returning  from  banishment,  she  entered 
grandfather's  presence,  threw  herself  at  his  feet,  and  be- 
sought him  to  restore  her  to  faл'or  and  affection,  and  to  for- 
get the  folly  which  had  come  upon  her,  and  to  which  she 
swore  not  to  return.     And  she  kept  her  word. 

From  that  day  Natasehka  became  Natalya  Savischna,  and 
wore  a  cap.  All  the  treasures  of  love  which  she  possessed 
she  transferred  to  her  young  mistress. 

When,  later  on,  a  governess  replaced  her  with  mamma, 
she  received  the  keys  of  the  storehouse,  and  all  the  linen  and 
provisions  were  given  into  her  charge.  She  fulliUed  these 
new  duties  with  the  same  love  and  zeal.     She  had  always 


42  CHILDHOOD. 

confusefl'ic  estate  ;  she  saw  waste,  ruin,  robbery,  on  every 
hi'',  iind  endeavored  by  every  means  in  her  power  to  coun- 
teract  them. 

When  mamma  married,  desiring  in  some  way  to  show  her 
gratitude  to  Natal3'a  Savischna  for  her  labor  and  attachment 
of  twenty  years,  she  had  her  summoned ;  and.  expi-essing  in 
the  most  flattering  terms  all  her  love  and  obligations,  she 
handed  her  a  sheet  of  stamped  paper,  which  declared  that 
Natalya  Savischna  was  a  free  woman  ;  and  she  said  that 
whether  the  latter  should  continue  to  serve  \\\  our  house 
or  not,  she  would  alwaj's  receive  a  yearly  pension  of  three 
hundred  rubles.  Natalya  Savischna  listened  to  all  this  in 
silence  ;  then  taking  the  document  in  her  own  hands,  she 
looked  angrily  at  it,  muttered  something  between  lier  lips, 
and  flew  out  of  the  room,  slamming  the  door  behind  her. 
Not  understanding  the  cause  of  this  strange  behavior, 
mamma,  after  wailing  a  little,  went  to  Natalya's  room.  She 
was  sitting  on  her  chest,  with  tear-swollen  ej'es,  twisting  her 
handkerchief  in  her  fingers,  and  intently  regarding  the 
tattered  fragments  of  her  emancipation  paper,  which  were 
scattered  over  the  floor  before  her. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  dearest  Natalya  Savischna?  "  asked 
mamma,  taking  her  hand. 

"  Nothing,  matuschka,"  ^  she  replied.  "  I  must  be  repul- 
sive to  vou  in  some  way,  that  you  drive  me  from  the  house. 
Well,  I  will  go." 

She  pulled  away  her  hand,  and,  with  difficulty  restraining 
her  tears,  she  made  a  motion  to  leave  the  room.  Mamma 
detained  her,  embraced  her,  and  they  Ijoth  wept  in  compan}'. 

From  the  time  when  I  can  recollect  any  thing,  I  remenil)er 

Natalya  Savischna,  her  love  and  caresses  ;  but  only  now  am 

I  able  to  appreciate  their  worth,  —  but  then  it  пел^ег  entered 

my  mind  to  think  what  a  rare  and  wonderful  being  that  old 

woman  Avas.     Not  only  did  she  пел'ег  speak,  but  she  seemed 

never  even  to  think,  of  herself :  her  Avhole  life  was  love  and 

self-sacrifice.     I  was  so  accustomed  to  her  tender,  unselfish 

love  for  us,  that   I  did   not  even  imagine  that  it  could  be 

otherwise  ;  was  not  in  the  least  grateful  to  her,  and  never 

I   asked  myself.  Is  she  happy?     Is  slie  content? 

\       Sometimes,  under  the  plea  of  imperative  necessity,  I  would 

\  run  away  from  m^-  lessons  to  her  room,  and  begin  to  dream 

j  aloud,  not  in  the  least  embariassed  by  her  presence.     She 

I  •  Little  mother ;  a  teim  of  euciearmeut. 


CHILDHOOD.  45 

was  always  busy  ол^ег  something ;  she  was  either  knitting 
a  stocking,  or  turning  ол-^г  the  chests  with  which  her  room 
was  filled,  or  taking  account  of  the  linen,  and  listening  to 
all  the  nonsense  which  I  uttered;  how,  ••  when  I  got  to  be 
a  general,  I  would  marry  a  wonderful  beauty,  buy  myself  a 
sori'el  horse,  build  a  glass  house,  and  send  for  all  Karl  Ivan- 
itch's  relatives  from  8ахопз%"  and  so  on;  she  Avould  sa}^ 
'••Yes,  batiuschka,^  yes."  Generally;  when  I  rose  and  pre- 
pared to  take  my  departure,  she  opened  a  blue  chest,  —  on  the 
inside  of  whose  cover,  as  I  now  remember,  there  were  pasted 
a  picture  of  a  hussar,  a  picture  from  a  pomade-box,  and  a 
drawing  by  Yolodya,  —  and  took  from  it  a  stick  of  incense, 
lighted  it,  and  said  as  she  waved  it  about,  — 

"•  This,  my  dear,  is  incense.  When  j^our  late  grandfather 
—  may  the  kingdom  of  heaven  be  his!  —  went  against  the 
Turks,  he  brought  this  back.  This  is  the  last  bit,"  she 
added  with  a  sigh. 

Positively,  there  was  every  thing  in  the  chests  with  which 
■  her  room  was  filled.  Whatever  was  needed,  the  cry  always 
was,  "  We  must  ask  Natalya  Savischna  ;  "  and,  in  fact,  she 
always  found  the  article  required,  after  a  little  lummaging, 
and  said,  "It's  well  that  I  hid  it  away."  In  those  chests 
were  thousands  of  things  лvhich  nobody  in  the  house,  except 
herself,  ever  knew  or  troubled  themselves  about. 

Once  I  was  angry  with  her.  This  is  how  it  was,  I 
dropped  the  decanter  when  I  was  pouring  myself  some  kvas 
at  dinner,  and  spilled  it  on  the  tablecloth. 

"  Call  Natalya  .Savischna,  that  she  may  take  pride  in  her 
favorite,"  said  mamma. 

Natalya  Savischna  came,  and  on  seeing  the  puddle  which 
I  had  made,  she  shook  her  head  ;  then  mamma  whispered 
something  in  her  ear,  and  she  went  out,  shaking  her  finger  at 
me. 

After  dinner,  I  was  on  my  way  to  the  hall,  and  skip- 
ping about  in  the  most  cheerful  frame  of  mind,  when,  all 
at  once,  Natalya  Savischna  sprang  out  from  behind  the 
door,  with  the  tablecloth  in  her  hand,  caught  me,  and,  in 
s[)ite  of  desperate  resistance  on  m}-  part,  began  to  rub  my 
face  with  the  wet  place,  crying,  "  Don't  spot  the  tablecloth, 
don't  spot  the  tablecloth  !  "  1  was  so  offended  that  I  roared 
with  rage. 
■*%  *•■  What !  "  I  said  to  myself,  as  I  walked  up  and  down  the 

1  Little  father,  my  dear. 


46  CniLDnOOD. 

room  and  gulped  down  my  tears,  "  Natalj^a  Savischna,  plain 
Nattdya^  calls  me  thou^  and  strikes  me  in  the  face  with  a  wet 
tablecloth  to  boot,  as  if  1  were  a  servant  boy  !  This  is  hor- 
rible !  " 

When  Natalya  Savischna  saw  that  I  was  gasping  with 
rage,  she  immediately  ran  off,  and  I  went  on  pacing  to  and 
fro,  and  meditating  how  I  might  pay  off  that  impudent 
Natal^'a  for  the  insult  which  she  had  inflicted  on  me. 

In  a  few  minutes  Natalya  Savischna  returned,  approached 
me  timidl}',  and  began  to  exhort  me. 

"  Enough,  my  dear,  don't  cry.  Forgive  me,  I  was  foolish. 
I  am  in  the  wrong.  You  will  forgive  me,  my  dove.  Here, 
this  is  for  3'ou." 

From  beneath  her  kerchief  she  drew  a  horn  of  red  paper, 
in  which  were  two  caramels  and  one  grape,  and  gave  it  to 
me  with  a  treml)liug  hand.  1  had  not  the  strength  to  look 
the  good  old  woman  in  the  face  ;  I  turned  away,  took  her 
gift,  and  my  tears  flowed  still  more  abundantly,  but  from 
love  and  shame  now,  and  no  longer  from  anger. 


CniLDUOOD.  47 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


At  twelve  o'clock  ou  the  day  following  the  events  which  I 
have  described,  the  calash  and  britchka  stood  at  the  door. 
Nikolai  was  dressed  for  travelling ;  that  is  to  say,  his  trou- 
sers were  tucked  into  his  boots,  and  his  old  coat  was  \Qvy 
closely  belted.  He  stood  by  the  britchka,  packing  the  over- 
coats and  cushions  under  the  seat ;  when  the  pile  seemed  to 
him  too  high,  he  seated  himself  on  the  cushions,  jumped  up 
and  dowu,  and  flattened  them. 

"  For  HeaA'en's  sake,  Nikolai  Dmitritch,  can't  we  put  the 
master's  strong  box  in?  "  said  papa's  panting  valet,  leaning 
out  of  the  calash  :  "  it  is  small." 

"  You  should  have  said  so  before,  Mikhei  Ivanitch,"  an- 
swered Nikolai  quickly  and  angrily,  flinging  a  parcel  with 
all  his  might  on  the  floor  of  the  britchka.  "O  Lord,  my 
head  is  going  round,  and  here  you  come  with  your  box !  "  he 
added,  pulling  off  his  cap,  and  wiping  the  big  drops  of  per- 
spiration from  his  burning  brow. 

Men-servants  in  coats,  caftans,  shirts,  without  hats,  women 
in  striped  petticoats  and  striped  dresses,  with  children  in 
their  arms,  and  barefooted  children  stood  about  the  steps, 
stared  at  the  equipages,  and  talked  among  themselves.  One 
of  the  post-boys  —  a  bent  old  man  in  a  winter-cap  and  arm- 
yak —  held  in  his  hand  the  pole  of  the  calash,  moved  it  back 
and  forth,  and  thoughtfully  surveyed  its  action  ;  the  other,  a 
good-hjoking  young  fellow,  clad  onl}'  in  a  white  smock  with 
siioulder-gnssets  of  red  kumatch,^  and  a  l)lack  lamb's-wool 
cap,  which  he  tilted  first  over  one  ear  and  then  over  the 
other  as  he  scratched  his  l)londe  curls,  placed  his  armyak  ou 
the  box,  flung  the  reins  there  also,  and,  cracking  his  braided 
knout,  gazed  now  at  his  boots,  now  at  the  coachmen  who 
were  greasing  the  britchka.     One  of  them,  after  having  fin- 

1  л  red  cottou  material. 


48  CHILDHOOD. 

ished  his  liibors,  was  strainino;  himself  and  holding  the  steps  ; 
another  was  bending  over  the  wheel,  and  carefully  greasing 
axle  and  box,  and  even  smearing  it  from  below  in  a  circle, 
in  order  tliat  the  oil  upon  his  cloth  might  not  be  wasted. 
The  broken-down  post-horses  of  various  coloi's  stood  at  the 
fence,  and  brushed  away  the  flies  with  tlieir  tails.  Some  of 
them  planted  their  shaggy,  swollen  legs  far  apart,  closed 
thi'ir  eyes,  and  dozed ;  some  scratched  each  other  from 
ennui,  or  nipped  the  fronds  and  stalks  of  the  harsh,  dark- 
green  ferns  which  grew  beside  the  porch.  Several  grey- 
hounds breathed  heavily  as  they  lay  in  the  sun  ;  others  got 
into  the  shade  beneath  the  calash  and  britchka,  and  licked 
the  tallow  around  the  axles.  The  whole  atmosphere  was 
flUed  with  a  kind  of  dusty  mist ;  the  horizon  was  of  a  grayish 
lilac  hue,  but  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  tiny  cloud  in  the 
sky.  The  strong  west  wind  raised  pillars  of  dust  from  the 
roads  and  fields,  bent  the  crests  of  the  loft}'  lindens,  and 
the  birches  in  the  garden,  and  bore  far  awa}-  the  falling  yel- 
low leaves.  I  sat  by  the  window,  and  awaited  the  completion 
of  the  preparations  with  impatience. 

When  all  were  assembled  around  the  large  table  in  the 
drawing-room,  in  order  to  spend  a  few  minutes  together  for 
the  last  time,  it  never  entered  my  mind  what  a  painful 
moment  was  awaiting  us.  The  most  trivial  thoughts  wan- 
dered through  my  brain.  I  asked  mj^self,  Which  post-boy 
will  drive  the  calash,  and  which  the  britchka?  who  would 
travel  with  papa,  and  who  with  Karl  Ivanitch  ?  and  луЬз*  was 
it  indispensable  to  wrap  me  up  in  a  scarf  and  a  long  wadded 
overcoat  ? 

''Am  I  so  delicate?  I  shall  not  freeze.  I  wish  they 
would  get  through  this  as  quickly  as  [wssible  !  I  want  to 
get  in  and  ride  off." 

"To  whom  shall  I  give  the  list  of  the  children's  linen?" 
asked  Natalya  Savischna,  coming  in  with  tear-swollen  e^'es 
and  the  list  in  her  hand,  as  she  turned  to  mamma. 

"  Give  it  to  Nikolai,  and  come  back  to  say  good-by  to  the 
children." 

The  old  woman  tried  to  say  something,  but  suddenly 
paused,  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief,  and  left  the 
room  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

My  heart  contracted  with  pain  when  I  saw  that  motion  ; 
but  im]:)atieuce  to  start  was  stronger  than  that  feeling,  and 
I  continued  to  listen  indifferentl}'  to  papa's  conversation  with 


сщьвнооп.  49 

mamma.  They  talked  of  things  which  evidently  interested 
nuither  of  them  :  What  Avas  it  necessaij  to  purchase  fur  the 
house?  what  was  to  l)e  said  to  Princess  Sophie  aud  Madame 
Julie?  and  would  the  traA-elling  be  good? 

Foka  entered,  and,  halting  on  the  threshold,  said,  "  The 
horses  are  ready,"  in  exactly  the  same  tone  with  which  lie 
announced,  "Dinner  is  served."  I  noticed  that  mamma 
shuddered  aud  turned  pale  at  this  announcement,  as  though 
she  had  not  expected  it. 

Foka  was  ordered  to  close  all  the  doors  of  the  room.  ] 
was  very  much  amused  *■*  at  their  all  hiding  themselves  from 
somebody." 

When  all  sat  down,  Foka  also  seated  himself  on  the  edge 
of  a  chair ;  but  no  sooner  liad  he  done  so  than  a  door 
squeaked,  and  all  glanced  round.  Natalya  Savischna  entered 
in  haste,  and,  without  raising  her  e3'es,  took  refuge  on  the 
same  chair  with  Foka.  I  seem  now  to  see  Foka's  bald  head 
and  wrinkled,  immovable  face,  and  the  kind,  bent  form  in  the 
cap  beneath  which  the  gray  hair  was  visil)le.  They  crowded 
together  on  the  one  chair,  and  both  felt  awkward. 

1  remained  unconcerned  and  impatient.  The  ten  seconds 
during  which  we  sat  there  with  closed  doors  seemed  a  wliole 
hour  to  me.  At  length  we  all  rose,  crossed  ourselves,  and 
began  to  take  leave.  Papa  embraced  mamma,  aud  kissed 
her  several  times. 

"Enough,  my  dear,"  said  papa.  "  AVe  are  not  parting 
forcA'er." 

"It  is  painful,  nevertheless,"  said  mamma  in  a  voice 
Avliich  quivered  with  tears. 

When  I  heard  that  voice,  and  l)eheld  her  trembling  lips 
and  her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  I  forgot  ever}'  thing,  and  every 
thing  seemed  to  me  so  sad  and  miserable  and  terrible  tliat  I 
would  rather  have  run  away  than  have  said  good-by  to  her. 
At  that  moment  I  realized  tliat  when  she  embraced  papa,  she 
had  already  taken  leave  of  us. 

She  kissed  aud  crossed  Yolodya  so  many  times,  that,  sup- 
posing that  she  would  now  turn  to  me,  I  stepped  forward. 
But  she  continued  to  bless  him  and  to  press  him  to  her  liosom. 
Finally  I  eml)raced  lier.  and  clinging  to  lier  I  wept  witliout  a 
thouglit  beyond  my  grief. 

Wlien  we  went  out  to  get  into  tlie  carnage,  the  tiresome 
servants  stepped  forward  in  the  anteroom  to  say  farewell. 
Their  '*  Your  hand,  please,  sir,"   their  uoisy  kis-scs  on  our 


50  CniLBIIOOD. 

shonklers,  and  the  smell  of  the  tallow  on  their  heads,  aroused 
in  me  a  sentiment  nearly  akin  to  that  of  bitterness  inirrital)le 
people.  Under  the  iniiuence  of  this  feeling  I  kissed  Natah  a 
Navischna  л^егу  coldl}'  on  her  cap  when,  bathed  in  tears,  she 
bade  me  farewell. 

It  is  strange  that  I  can  even  now  see  the  faces  of  all  those 
servants,  and  I  could  draw  them  with  all  the  most  minute 
details,  but  mamma's  face  and  attitude  have  utterly  escaped 
my  mind ;  perhaps  because  during  all  that  time  I  could  not 
once  summon  up  courage  to  look  at  her.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  if  I  did  so,  her  sorrow  and  mine  must  increase  to  the 
bounds  of  impossibility. 

I  flung  myself  first  of  all  into  the  calash,  and  placed  my- 
self on  the  back  seat.  As  the  back  was  up,  I  could  see 
nothing,  but  some  instinct  told  me  that  mamma  was  still 
there. 

"  Shall  I  look  at  her  again,  or  not?  ЛУе11,  for  the  last 
time,  then  !  "  I  said  to  myself,  and  leaned  out  of  the  calash 
towards  the  porch.  At  that  moment  mamma  had  come  to 
the  other  side  of  the  carriage  with  the  same  intent,  and  called 
me  by  name.  When  I  heard  her  Aoice  behind  me,  I  turned 
round,  but  I  did  it  so  abruptly  that  we  bumped  our  heads 
together.  She  smiled  mourufull}',  and  kissed  me  long  and 
warml}-  for  the  last  time. 

When  we  had  driven  several  rods,  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
look  at  her.  The  breeze  raised  the  blue  kerchief  which  was 
tied  about  her  head ;  with  bended  head,  and  face  covered 
with  her  hands,  she  was  entering  the  porch  slowly.  Foka 
was  sustaining  her. 

Papa  sat  beside  me,  and  said  nothing.  I  was  choking 
with  tears,  and  something  oppressed  my  throat  so  that  I 
was  afraid  I  should  stifle.  As  we  entered  the  highway,  we 
saw  a  white  handkerchief  which  some  one  was  waving  from 
the  balcony.  I  began  to  wave  mine,  and  this  movement 
calmed  me  somewhat.  I  continued  to  cry,  and  the  thought 
that  my  tears  proved  my  sensitiveness  afforded  me  pleasure 
and  consolation. 

After  we  had  travelled  a  verst,  I  sat  more  composedly, 
and  began  to  observe  the  nearest  objects  which  presented 
themselves  to  my  eyes,  —  the  hind  quarters  of  the  side  horse 
which  was  on  my  side.  I  noticed  how  this  piebald  animal 
flourished  his  tail,  how  he  set  one  foot  down  after  the  otlier, 
how  the  post-boy's  braided  knout  reached  him,  and  his  feet 


5*5 
CHILDHOOD. 

began  to  leap  together.  I  noticed  bow  tbe  harness  leaped 
about  on  him,  and  the  lings  on  the  harness  ;  and  I  gazed 
until  the  harness  was  covered  around  the  tail  with  foam.  1 
began  to  look  about  me,  upon  the  undulating  fields  of  ripe 
rye,  on  the  dark  waste  laud,  on  which  here  and  there  ploughs, 
peasants,  and  mares  with  their  foals  were  visible  ;  on  the 
verst-stones  ;  I  even  glanced  at  the  carriage-box  to  find  out 
which  post-boy  was  driving  us  ;  and  the  teai's  were  not  dry 
on  my  face,  when  my  thoughts  were  already  far  from  the 
mother  whom  I  had  left  perhaps  forever.  But  every  recol- 
lection led  me  to  the  thought  of  her.  I  recalled  the  mush- 
room which  I  had  found  the  day  before  in  the  birch-alley, 
and  remembered  that  Liubotchka  and  Kateuka  had  disputed 
as  to  who  should  pluck  it,  and  I  remember  how  they  had 
wept  at  parting  from  us. 

I  was  sorry  for  them,  and  for  Natalya  Savischna,  and  the 
birch-alley,  and  РЪка.  I  was  even  sorry  for  malicious  Mimi. 
I  was  sorry  for  every  thing,  every  thing  !  But  poor  mamma, У 
And  the  tears  again  filled  my  eyes,  but  not  for  long. 


г^ 


50 


CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

CHILDHOOD. 

Happy,  happy  days  of  j'oiith  which  can  never  be  recalled  ! 
How  is  it  possible  not  to  love  it,  to  cheribh  memories  of  it? 
Those  memories  refresh  and  elevate  my  soul,  and  serve  me 
as  the  fountain  of  my  best  enjoyment. 

—  You  have  run  your  fill.  You  sit  at  the  tea-table,  in 
your  high  chair  ;  3'ou  have  drunk  your  cup  of  milk  and  sugar 
long  ago  ;  sleep  is  gluing  your  eyes  together,  but  you  do  not 
stir  from  the  spot,  you  sit  and  listen.  And  how  can  3'ou 
help  listening?  Mamma  is  talking  with  souie  one,  and  the 
sound  of  her  voice  is  so  sweet,  so  courteous.  That  sound 
alone  says  so  much  to  my  heart !  With  ej'es  dimmed  with 
slumber,  I  gaze  upon  her  face,  and  all  at  once  she  has  become 
sm.all,  so  small  —  her  face  is  no  larger  than  a  button,  but  I 
see  it  just  as  plainly  still.  I  see  her  look  at  me  and  smile. 
I  like  to  see  her  so  small.  I  draw  my  eyelids  still  closer 
together,  and  she  is  no  larger  than  the  little  boys  one  sees  in 
the  pupils  of  the  eyes ;  but  I  moved,  and  the  illusion  was 
destro3-ed.  I  close  my  e3'es,  twist  about,  and  try  in  eveiy 
way  to  reproduce  it,  but  in  vain. 

1  rise,  tuck  my  feet  under  me,  and  settle  myself  comfort- 
abl}'  in  an  eas^'-chair. 

"You  will  go  to  sleep  again,  Nikoliuka,"  sa^-s  mamma; 
"you  had  better  go  up-stairs." 

"I  don't  want  to  go  to  bed,  mamma,"  3'ou  reply,  and 
sweet,  dim  fancies  fill  your  brain  ;  the  healthy  slee'p  of  child- 
hood closes  your  lids,  and  in  a  moment  30U  lose  conscious- 
ness, and  sleep  until  the}'  wake  3'ou.  You  feel  in  your 
dreams  that  somebody's  soft  hand  is  touching  you  ;  you 
recognize  it  by  that  touch  alone  ;  and  still  sleeping  you  invol- 
untarily seize  it,  and  press  it  warmh',  so  warmly,  to  your  lips. 

Every  one  has  already  dejiarted  :  one  candle  only  burns  in 
the  drawing-room.     Mamma  has  said  that  she  would  wake 


г 


CniLDIIOOD.  55 

me  :    it  is  she  who  has  sat  down  on   the   chair  in  wh. 
ain  sleeping,  and  strokes  my  hair  лvith  her  wonderfully  ь 
hand,  and  in  my  ears  resoimds  the  dear,  familiar  лю1се. 

''  Get  up,  m}'  darling,  it  is  time  to  go  to  bed." 

She  is  not  embarrassed  b}'  any  one's  indifferent  glances  ; 
she  does  not  fear  to  pour  out  upon  me  all  her  tenderness  and 
love.     I  do  not  move,  but  kiss  her  hand  yet  more  earnestly. 

"  Get  up,  тз'  angel." 

She  takes  me  by  the  neck  with  her  other  hand,  and  her 
slender  fingers  rouse  me  and  tickle  me  ;  she  touches  me,  and 
I  am  conscious  of  her  perfume  and  her  voice.  All  this 
makes  me  spring  up,  encircle  her  neck  with  my  arms,  press 
my  head  to  her  bosom  with  a  sigh,  and  say,  — 

''  Oh,  dear,  dear  mamma,  how  I  love  3'ou  !  " 

She  smiles,  with  her  sad,  beлvitching  smile,  takes  mj^  head 
in  both  her  hands,  kisses  my  brow,  and  sets  me  on  her 
knees. 

"So  3'ou  1ол'е  me  very  nuich?"  She  is  silent  for  a 
moment,  then  speaks:  "See  that  3'ou  alwa3^s  love  me,  and 
never  forget  me.  If  you  lose  3'our  mamma,  3'ou  will  not  for- 
get her?  3"0U  will  not  forget  her,  Nikolinka?" 

She  kisses  me  still  more  tenderly. 

"Stop!  don't  say  that,  my  darling,  my  precious  one!" 
I  СГ3',  kissing  her  knees  ;  and  the  tears  stream  in  floods  from 
my  eyes,  —  tears  of  love  and  rapture. 

After  that,  perhaps,  wdien  3'ou  go  up-stairs,  and  stand 
before  the  images  in  yovw  wadded  dressing-gown,  what  a 
wonderful  sensation  з'ои  experience  when  you  sa3%  "O  Lord  ! 
save  papa  and  mamma!"  In  repeating  the  ргаз^егз  which 
my  mouth  lisped  for  the  first  time  after  nn-  Ijeloved  mother, 
tlie  love  of  her  and  the  love  of  God  are  united,  in  some 
strange  fashion,  in  one  feeling. 

After  3'our  ргаз^ег  you  wrap  yourself  in  the  bedclothes, 
with  a  spirit  light,  bright,  and  inspiring  ;  one  dream  succeeds 
another,  but  what  are  they  all  about?  They  are  indescrib- 
able ;  but'full  of  pure  love,  of  hope  and  earthly  happiness. 
You  perhaps  recall  Karl  Ivanitch  and  his  bitter  lot,  —  the 
only  unhappy  man  I  knew,  —  and  3'Ou  are  so  sorry  for  him, 
you  lo\e  liim  so,  that  tears  trickle  from  your  eyes,  and  you 
think,  "May  God  give  him  happiness;  may  He  grant  me 
power  to  help  him,  to  lighten  his  sorrow  ;  I  am  ready  to 
sacrifice  everv  thing  for  him."  Then  you  thrust  your  favorite 
porcelain  plaything  —  a  dog  and  a  hare  —  into  the  corner  of 


-^  CniLDUOOD. 

.own  pillow,  and  it  pleases  you  to  think  how  warm  and 

.nt'ortal)le  they  will  be  there.  You  pray  again,  that  God 
.»ill  grant  ha[)i)iuess  to  all,  that  every  one  may  be  content, 
and  that  the  weather  to-morrow  may  be  good  for  walking. 
You  turn  on  the  other  side  ;  your  thoughts  and  dreams  min- 
gle confusedly,  and  intertwine,  and  you  fall  asleep  quietly, 
calmly,  with  your  face  still  wet  with  tears. 

Will  that  freshness,  that  happy  carelessness,  that  neces- 
sity for  love  and  strength  of  faith,  which  you  possessed  in 
childhood,  ever  return?  Can  anytime  be  better  thah  that 
when  tlie  two  greatest  of  virtues — innocent  gayet}-,  and 
unbounded  thirst  for  love  —  were  the  only  requirements  in 
life? 

Where  are  those  burning  prayers?  AYhere  is  that  best 
,  gift  of  all,  those  pure  tears  of  emotion  ?  The  angel  of  com- 
fort flew  thither  with  a  smile,  and  wiped  away  those  tears, 
and  instilled  sweet  visions  into  the  uucorrupted  imagination 
of  infancy. 

lias  life  left  such  heavy  traces  in  my  heart  that  those 
tears  and  raptures  have  deserted  me  forever  ?  Do  the  memo- 
ries alone  abide? 


CHILDHOOD.  55 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

VERSES. 

Nearly  a  month  after  we  removed  to  Moscow,  I  was 
sitting  up-stairs  in  grandmamma's  Iiouse,  at  a  big  table, 
writing.  Opposite  me  sat  the  drawing-master,  making  the 
final  corrections  in  a  pencil-sketch  of  the  head  of  some  Turk 
or  otlier  in  a  turban.  Volodya  was  standing  behind  the 
master,  with  outstretched  neck,  gazing  over  his  shoulder. 
This  little  head  was  Volodya' s  first  production  in  pencil ;  and 
it  was  to  be  presented  to  'grandmamma  that  day,  which  was 
her  saint's  day. 

"And  you  would  not  put  any  more  shading  here?"  said 
Volodya,  rising  on  tiptoe,  and  poiuting  at  the  Turk's  neck. 

"■  No,  it  is  not  necessary,"  said  the  teacher,  laying  aside 
the  pencil  and  drawing-pen  in  a  little  box  with  a  lock;  "it 
is  very  good  now,  and  you  must  not  touch  it  again.  Now 
for  you,  Nikolinka,"  he  added,  rising,  and  continuing  to 
gaze  at  the  Turk  from  the  corner  of  his  eye  :  "  reveal  yowY 
secret  to  us.  What  are  you  going  to  carry  to  your  graud- 
mother?  To  tell  the  truth,  another  head  just  like  this  would 
be  the  best  thing.  Good-by,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  and, 
taking  his  hat  and  note,  he  went  out. 

I  had  been  thinking  myself,  at  the  moment,  that  a  head 
would  be  better  than  what  I  was  working  at.  When  it  had 
been  announced  to  us  that  grandmamma's  name-day  was 
near  at  hand,  and  that  we  must  prepare  gifts  for  the  occa- 
sion, I  had  immediately  made  up  a  couple  of  verses,  hoping 
soon  to  find  the  rest.  I  really  do  not  know  how  such  a 
strange  idea  for  a  child  entered  my  miud  ;  but  I  rememlier 
that  it  pleased  me  greatly,  and  that  to  all  questions  on  the 
subject  I  replied  that  I  would  give  grandmamma  a  present 
without  fail,  but  that  I  would  not  tell  any  one  of  wiuit  it  was 
to  consist. 

Contrary  to  my  expectations,  and  in  spite  of  all  ni}'  efforts, 


56  CHILDHOOD. 

I  could  not  compose  any  more  than  the  two  stanzas  which 
I  had  thouoht  out  on  the  S|)ur  of  the  moment.  I  began  to 
read  the  poems  in  our  books ;  but  neither  Umitrief  nor 
Derzhavin  afforded  me  any  assistance.  Quite  the  re\'erse : 
they  but  couA'iuced  me  more  thoroughl}'  of  m^^  own  in- 
capacity. Knowing  that  Karl  Ivauitch  was  fond  of  copying 
poetr}',  I  went  to  rummaging  among  his  papers  on  the  sly  ; 
and  among  the  German  poems  I  found  one  liussian,  which 
must  have  been  the  product  of  his  own  pen  : 

JBr  TO  MADA]ME  L. 


Remember  me  near; 
Eemember  me  afar; 
Eemember  me 
Колу  and  forever; 
Remember  ел^еп  to  my  grave 
How  faithfully  I  can  love.^ 

KARL  MAUER. 
Petrovskoe,  1S28,  June  3. 

This  poem,  transcribed  in  a  handsome  round  hand,  on  a 
thin  sheet  of  note-paper,  pleased  me  because  of  the  touching 
sentiment  with  which  it  was  penetrated.  I  immediately 
learned  it  by  heart,  and  resolved  to  take  it  for  a  pattern. 
The  matter  progressed  much  more  easily  then.  On  the 
name-day  a  congratulation  in  twelve  verses  was  read}^  and 
Д8  I  sat  in  the  schoolroom,  I  was  copying  it  on  vellum  paper. 

Two  sheets  of  paper  were  already  ruined  ;  not  because 
I  had  undertaken  to  make  any  alterations  in  them,  —  the 
verses  seemed  to  me  very  fine,  —  but  from  the  third  line  on, 
the  ends  began  to  incline  upwards  more  and  more,  so  that 
it  was  evident,  ел^еп  at  a  distance,  that  it  was  written 
crookedly,  and  was  fit  for  nothing. 

The  third  sheet  was  askew  like  the  others  ;  but  I  was 
determined  not  to  do  any  more  copying.  In  my  poem  I  con- 
gratulated grandmamma,  wished  her  many  years  of  health, 
and  concluded  thus  : 

"  To  comfort  thee  we  shall  endeavor, 
And  love  thee  like  our  own  dear  motlier." 

It  seemed  to  be  very  good,  з-et  the  last  line  offended  my 
ear  strangely. 

1  It  hardly  comes  under  the  head  of  poetry,  even  lu  the  original.  —  Tiianslatob. 


CniLDUOOD.  57 

I  kept  repeating  it  to  m3'self,  апЛ  trj'ing  to  find  a  rlij^rae 
instead  of  "  mother."  ^  "  Well,  let  it  go.  It's  better  than 
Karl  lA'auitch's,  au3'\vay." 

So  I  transcribed  the  last  stanza.  Then  I  read  mj'  whole 
composition  over  aloud  in  the  bedroom,  with  feeling  and  ges- 
ticulations. The  verses  were  entirely  lacking  in  rhythm,  but 
I  did  not  pause  over  them ;  the  last,  however,  struck  me  still 
more  powerfully  and  unpleasantly.  I  sat  down  on  the  bed, 
and  began  to  think. 

"  ЛУЬу  did  I  write  like  our  own  dear  mother?  She's  not 
here,  and  it  was  not  necessary  to  mention  her.  I  1ол^е  grand- 
ma, it's  true  ;  I  reverence  her,  but  still  she  is  not  the  same. 
AVhy  did  I  write  that?  Why  have  I  lied?  Suppose  this  is 
poetry  :  it  was  not  necessary,  all  the  same." 

At  this  moment  the  tailor  entered  with  a  new  jacket. 

''AVell,  let  it  go,"  I  said,  vei'y  impatiently,  thrust  my 
verses  under  m}'  pillow  in  great  vexation,  and  ran  to  try  ou 
my  Moscow  clothes. 

The  Moscow  coat  proved  to  be  excellent.  The  cinnamon- 
brown  half-coat,  with  its  bronze  buttons,  was  made  to  fit 
snugly  ;  not  as  they  made  them  in  the  country.  The  black 
trousers  were  also  tight ;  it  was  wonderful  to  see  how  well 
they  showed  the  muscles,  and  set  upon  the  shoes. 

"At  last  I've  got  some  trousers  with  real  straps,"  I 
thought,  quite  beside  myself  with  joy,  as  I  surveyed  my  legs 
on  all  sides.  Although  the  new  garments  were  л^ег}'  tight, 
and  it  was  hard  to  move  in  them,  I  concealed  the  fact  from 
everybody,  and  declared,  that,  on  the  contrary,  I  was  ex- 
tremely comfortable,  and  that  if  there  was  an}'  fault  about 
the  clothes,  it  was  that  the}'  were,  if  any  thing,  a  little  too 
large.  After  that  I  stood  for  a  long  time  before  the  glass, 
])rushing  my  copiously  pomaded  hair:  but,  try  as  I  would,  I 
could  not  make  the  tuft  where  the  hair  parts  ou  the  crown 
lie  flat ;  as  soon  as  I  ceased  to  press  it  down  with  the  brush, 
in  order  to  see  if  .it  would  obey  me,  it  rose,  and  projected  in 
all  directions,  imparting  to  my  face  the  most  ridiculous  ex- 
pression. 

Karl  Ivanitch  was  dressing  in  another  room  ;  and  his  blue 
swallow-tailed  coat,  and  some  white  belongings,  were  carried 
through  the  schoolroom  to  him.  The  voice  of  one  of  grand- 
mamma's maids  became  audible  at  the  door  which  led  down- 

^  Mat  (mother),  as  a  rhyme  to  uti/eschat  (to  comfort),  is  the  difficultj-.  Nikolai 
tries  to  fit  in  igrat  (to  play)  and  krovat  (bed),  in  elderly  rhymester  fashion. 


58  CniLDHOOD. 

stairs.  I  went  out  to  see  what  she  wanted.  In  her  hand 
she  held  a  stiffl}^  starched  shirt-front,  which  she  told  me  she 
had  brouglit  for  Karl  Ivanitch,  and  that  she  had  not  slept  all 
the  previous  night,  in  order  that  she  might  get  it  washed  in 
season.  I  undertook  to  deliver  it,  and  asked  if  grandmamma 
had  risen. 

"  Yes  indeed,  sir !  She  has  already  drank  her  coffee,  and 
the  protopope^  has  arrived.  How  fine  you  are  !  "  she  added, 
glancing  at  my  new  suit  with  a  smile. 

This  remark  made  me  blush.  I  whirled  round  on  one  foot, 
cracked  my  fingers,  and  gave  a  leap  ;  wishing  by  this  means 
to  make  her  feel  that  slie  did  not  thoroughly  appreciate,  as 
yet,  how  very  grand  I  was. 

When  1  carried  the  shirt-front  to  Karl  Ivanitch,  he  no 
longer  needed  it ;  he  had  put  on  another,  and,  bending  over 
before  the  little  glass  wliich  stood  on  the  table,  he  was  hold- 
ing the  splendid  ribbon  of  his  cravat  with  both  hands,  and 
trying  whether  his  clean-shaven  chin  would  go  into  it  easily 
and  out  again.  After  smoothing  our  clothes  down  on  all 
sides,  and  requesting  Nikolai  to  do  the  same  for  him,  he  led 
us  to  grandmamma.  I  laugh  when  I  remember  how  strongly 
we  three  smelt  of  pomade  as  we  descended  the  stairs. 

Karl  Ivanitch  had  in  his  hands  a  little  box  of  his  own  manu- 
facture, Volodya  had  his  drawing,  I  had  my  verses  ;  each 
one  had  upon  his  tongue  the  greeting  with  which  he  intended 
to  present  his  gift.  At  the  very  moment  when  Karl  Ivanitch 
opened  the  drawing-room  door,  the  priest  was  putting  on  his 
robes,  and  the  first  sounds  of  the  service  resounded. 

Grandmamma  was  already  in  the  drawing-room:  she  was 
standing  by  the  wall,  sup[)orting  herself  on  the  back  of  a 
chair,  over  which  she  bent,  and  was  praying  devoutl}^ ;  beside 
her  stood  papa.  He  turned  towards  us,  and  smiled,  as  he 
saw  us  hide  our  gifts  in  haste  behind  our  backs,  and  halt  just 
inside  the  door,  in  our  endeavor  to  escape  being  seen.  The 
whole  effect  of  unexpectedness  upon  which  we  had  counted 
was  ruined. 

When  the  time  came  to  go  up  and  kiss  the  cross,  I  sud- 
denly felt  that  I  was  under  the  oppressive  influence  of  an 
ill-defined,  benumbing  timidity,  and,  realizing  that  I  should 
never  have  courage  to  present  my  gift,  I  hid  behind  Karl 
Ivanitch,  who,  having  congratulated  grandmamma  in  the 
choicest  language,  shifted  his  box  from  his  right  hand  to  his 

»  Upper  priest. 


CniLDnOOD.  69 

left,  handed  it  to  the  lady  whose  name-day  it  was,  and  re- 
treated a  few  paces  in  order  to  make  way  for  Volodya. 
Grandmamma  appeared  to  be  in  ecstasies  over  the  box, 
which  had  gilt  strips  jiasted  on  the  edges,  and  expressed 
her  gratitude  with  the  most  flattering  of  smiles.  It  was  evi- 
dent, however,  that  she  did  not  know  where  to  put  the  dox, 
and  it  must  have  been  for  this  reason  that  she  proposed  that 
papa  should  examine  with  лvhat  wonderful  taste  it  was  made- 
After  satisfying  his  curiosity,  papa  handed  it  to  the  proto- 
pope,  who  seemed  exceedingly  pleased  with  this  trifle.  He 
dandled  his  head,  and  gazed  curiously  now  at  the  box,  and 
again  at  the  artist  who  could  make  such  a  beautiful  object. 
Volodya  produced  his  Turk,  and  he  also  received  the  most 
flattering  encomiums  from  all  quarters.  Now  it  was  my  turn  : 
grandmamma  turned  to  me  with  an  encouraging  smile. 

Those  who  have  suffered  from  shyness  know  that  that  feel- 
ing increases  in  direct  proportion  to  the  time  which  elapseSi, 
and  that  resolution  deci'eases  in  an  inverse  ratio  ;  that  is  to' 
say,  the  longer  the  sensation  lasts,  the  more  unconquerable 
it  becomes,  and  the  less  decision  there  is  left. 

The  last  remnants  of  courage  and  determination  forsook 
me  when  Karl  Ivanitch  and  Volodya  presented  their  gifts, 
and  my  shyness  reached  a  crisis  ;  I  felt  that  the  blood  was 
incessantly  rushing  from  my  heart  into  my  head,  as  though 
one  color  succeeded  another  on  ray  face,  and  that  great 
drops  of  perspiration  broke  out  upon  m}'  nose  and  forehead. 
My  ears  burned  ;  I  felt  a  shiver  and  a  cold  perspiration  all 
over  my  body ;  I  sliifted  from  foot  to  foot,  and  did  not  stir 
from  the  spot. 

"Come,  Nikoliuka,  show  us  what  you  Ьал^е,  —  a  box  or 
a  drawing,"  said  papa.  There  Avas  nothing  to  be  done. 
With  a  trembling  hand,  I  presented  the  crumpled,  fateful 
parcel ;  but  my  voice  utterly  refused  to  serve  me,  and  1 
stood  before  grandmamma  in  silence.  I  could  not  get  over 
the  thought,  that,  in  place  of  the  drawing  ллЬ1сЬ  was  ex- 
pected, my  worthless  verses  would  be  read  before  ever}'  one, 
including  the  words,  like  our  ow)i  dear  mother,  which  would 
clearly  i)rove  that  I  had  пел'ег  loAcd  her  and  had  forgotten 
her.  IIow  convey  an  idea  of  ni}'  sufferings  during  the  time 
when  grandmamma  liegan  to  read  m}'  poem  aloud,  and  when, 
unable  to  decipher  it,  she  paused  in  the  middle  of  a  line  in 
order  to  glance  at  papa  with  what  then  seemed  to  me  a 
mocking  smile  ;  when  she  did  not  pronounce  to  suit  me  ;  and 


60  CniLDnOOD. 

when,  owing  to  her  feebleness  of  vision,  she  gave  the  paper 
to  papa  before  she  had  finished,  and  begged  him  to  read  it 
all  over  again  from  the  beginning?  It  seemed  to  me  that 
she  did  it  becanse  she  did  not  like  to  read  sueh  stupid  and 
crookedly  written  verses,  and  in  order  that  papa  might  read 
for  himself  that  last  line  which  proved  so  clearly  my  lack  of 
feeling.  I  expected  that  he  would  give  me  a  fillip  on  the 
nose  with  those  verses,  and  say,  ''You  good-for-nothing 
boy,  don't  forget  3'our  mother  —  take  that!"  But  nothing 
of  the  sort  happened :  on  the  contrary,  when  all  was  read, 
grandmamma  said,  ''  Charming  !  "   and  kissed  my  brow. 

The  little  box,  the  drawing,  and  the  verses  were  laid  out 
in  a  row,  beside  two  cambric  handkerchiefs  and  a  snuff-box 
with  a  portrait  of  mamma,  on  the  movable  table  attached  to 
the  arm-chair  in  which  grandmamma  alwaj's  sat. 

"  Princess  Varvara  Ilinitchna,"  announced  one  of  the  two 
huge  lackeys  who  accompanied  grandmamma's  carriage. 

Grandmamma  gazed  thoughtfully  at  the  portrait  set  in  the 
tortoise-shell  cover  of  the  snuff-box,  and  made  no  reply. 

"  Will  your  excellency  receive  her?  "  repeated  the  footman. 


CniLDnOOD.  61 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

PRINCESS    KORNAKOVA. 

"Ask  her  iu,"  said  grandmamma,  sitting  back  in  her 
arm-chair. 

The  Princess  was  a  woman  of  about  fortj'-five,  small, 
fragile,  dry  and  bitter,  with  disagreeable  grayish-green  eyes, 
whose  expression  plainly  contradicted  tliat  of  the  preter- 
naturally  sweet  pursed-up  mouth.  Beneath  her  л"elл'et  bon- 
net, adorned  with  an  ostrich  plume,  her  bright  red  hair  was 
visible  ;  her  eyebrows  and  lashes  appeared  still  lighter  and 
redder  against  the  unhealth}'  color  of  her  face.  In  spite  of 
this,  thanks  to  her  unconstrained  movements,  her  tiny  hands, 
and  a  peculiar  coldness  of  feature,  her  general  appearance 
was  rather  noble  and  energetic. 

The  Princess  talked  a  great  deal,  and  by  her  distinct  enun- 
ciation belonged  to  the  class  of  people  who  always  speak  as 
though  some  one  were  contradicting  them,  though  no  one 
has  uttered  a  word :  she  alternately  raised  her  voice  and 
lowered  it  gradually,  and  began  all  at  once  to  speak  with 
fresh  animation,  and  gazed  at  the  persons  who  were  present 
but  who  took  no  part  in  the  conversation,  as  though  endeav- 
oring to  obtain  sui)port  by  this  glance. 

In  si)ite  of  the  fact  that  the  Princess  kissed  grandmamma's 
hand,  and  called  her  via  bonne  tante  incessantly,  I  observed 
tliat  grandmamma  was  not  pleased  with  her :  she  twitched 
her  l)rows  in  a  peculiar  manner  while  listening  to  her  story, 
al)out  the  reason  why  Prince  INIikhailo  could  not  come  iu 
person  to  congratulate  grandmamma,  iu  spite  of  his  ardent 
desire  to  do  so ;  and,  replying  in  Russian  to  the  Princess's 
French,  she  said,  with  a  singular  drawl,  "I  am  very  much 
obliged  to  you,  m}'  dear,  for  your  attention  ;  and  as  for  Prince 
Mikhailo  not  coming,  it  is  not  worth  mentioning,  he  always 
has  so  much  to  do ;  and  what  pleasure  could  he  find  in 
sitting  with  an  old  woman?  " 


62  CniLDIIOOB. 

And  without  giving  the  Princess  time  to  contradict  her, 
she  went  on  : 

"  How  lire  з'оиг  children,  my  dear?  " 

"Thank  God,  aunt,  they  are  growing  well,  and  studying 
and  placing  pranks,  especially  Etienne.  He  is  the  eldest, 
and  he  is  getting  to  be  so  wild  that  луе  can't  do  any  thing 
with  him;  but  he's  clever,  —  a  promising  boy. — Just  im- 
agine, cousin,"  she  continued,  turning  exclusively  to  papa, 
because  grandmamma,  who  took  no  interest  in  the  Princess's 
children,  and  wanted  to  brag  of  her  own  grandchildren,  had 
taken  my  verses  from  the  box  with  great  care,  and  was 
beginning  to  unfold  them,  —  "  just  imagine,  cousin,  what  he 
did  the  other  day."  And  the  Princess  bent  over  papa, 
and  began  to  i-elate  something  with  great  animation.  When 
she  had  finished  her  tale,  which  I  did  not  hear,  she  imme- 
diately began  to  laugh,  and  looking  inquiringly  at  papa,  said  : 

"That's  a  nice  kind  of  boy,  cousin?  He  deserA'ed  a 
whipping;  but  his  caper  луаз  so  clever  and  amusing,  that  I 
forgave  him,  cousin." 

And,  fixing  her  eyes  on  grandmamma,  the  Princess  went 
on  smiling,  but  said  nothing. 

"Do  3'ou  beat  your  children,  my  dear?  "  inquired  grand- 
manmia,  raising  her  brov\s  significantly,  and  laying  a  special 
emphasis  on  the  word  beat. 

"Ah,  my  good  aunt,"  replied  the  Princess  in  a  good- 
natured  tone,  as  she  cast  a  swift  glance  at  papa,  "  I  know 
your  opinion  on  that  point ;  but  you  must  permit  me  to  dis- 
agree with  you  in  one  particular :  iu  spite  of  all  my  thought 
and  reading,  in  spite  of  all  the  advice  which  I  have  taken 
on  this  subject,  experience  has  led  me  to  the  conviction, 
that  it  is  indispensable  that  one  should  act  upon  children 
thi-ough  their  fears.  Fear  is  requisite,  in  order  to  make  any 
thing  out  of  a  child;  is  it  not  so,  my  cousin?  Now,  I  ask 
you,  do  children  fear  any  thing  more  than  the  rod?  " 

AVith  this,  she  glanced  inquiringly  at  us,  and  I  confess  I 
felt  rather  uncomfortable  at  that  moment. 

"  Whatever  you  may  say,  a  boy  of  twelve,  or  even  one 
of  fourteen,  is  still  a  child ;  but  a  girl  is  quite  another 
matter. ' ' 

"How  lucky,"  I  thought  to  myself,  "that  I  am  not  her 


son 


"Yes,  that's  all  very  fine,  my  dear,"  said  grandmamma, 
folding  up  my  verses,  and  placing  them  under  the  box,  as 


CniLDnOOD.  63 

though,  after  that,  she  considered  the  Princess  unTvorthy  of 
hearing  such  a  production  :  ''  that's  all  \чму  fine,  but  tell 
me,  please,  how  you  can  expect  au}^  delicac}'  of  feeling  in 
your  children  after  that." 

And  regarding  this  argument  as  unanswerable,  grand- 
mamma added,  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  conversation  : 

"  However,  every  one  has  a  right  to  his  own  opinion  on 
that  subject." 

The  Princess  made  no  reply,  but  smiled  condescendingly, 
thereby  giving  us  to  understand  that  she  pardoned  these 
strange  prejudices  in  an  individual  who  was  so  much  re- 
spected. 

"  Ah,  pray  make  me  acquainted  with  your  young  people," 
she  said,  glancing  at  us,  and  smiling  politely. 

We  rose,  fixed  our  eyes  on  the  Princess's  face,  but  did 
not  in  the  least  know  what  we  ought  to  do  in  order  to  show 
that  the  acquaintance  had  been  made. 

"  Kiss  the  Princess's  hand,"  said  papa. 

"  I  beg  that  you  will  love  your  old  aunt."  she  said,  kissing 
Volodya  on  the  hair:  '' although  I  am  only  a  distant  aunt, 
I  reckon  on  our  friendly  relations  rather  than  on  degrees  of 
blood  relationship,"  she  added,  directing  her  remarks  chiefly 
to  grandmamma  ;  but  grandmamma  was  still  displeased  with 
her,  and  answered : 

"  Eh  !  my  dear,  does  such  relationship  count  for  any  thing 
nowadays  ?  ' ' 

"This  is  going  to  be  m}'  young  man  of  the  world,"  said 
papa,  pointing  to  Volod^-a  ;  "  and  this  is  the  poet,"  he  added, 
just  as  I  was  kissing  the  Princess's  dry  little  hand,  and  im- 
agining, with  exceeding  vividness,  that  the  hand  held  a  rod, 
and  beneatli  the  rod  was  a  l)ench,  and  so  on,  and  so  on. 

'•  Which?  "  asked  the  Princess,  detaining  me  b}-  the  hand. 

"This  little  fellow  Avith  the  tuft  on  his  crown,"  answered 
papa,  smiling  gayl}'. 

*'AVhat  does  my  tuft  matter  to  him?  Is  there  no  other 
sul)ject  of  conversation?"  1  thought,  and  retreated  into  a 
corner. 

I  had  the  strangest  possible  conceptions  of  beauty.  I 
even  considered  Karl  Ivanitch  the  greatest  beaut}'  in  the 
world  ;  but  I  knew  very  Avell  that  I  was  not  good-looking 
myself,  and  on  this  point  I  made  no  mistake :  therefore 
any  allusion  to  my  personal  appearance  offended  me  deeply. 

I  remember  very  well,   how  once  —  I  was  six  years  old 


64  CHILDHOOD. 

at  the  time  —  they  were  discussing  my  looks  at  dinner,  and 
mamma  was  trviiig  to  discover  something  handsome  about 
my  face  :  she  said  1  had  intelligent  eyes,  an  agreeable  smile, 
and  at  last,  yielding  to  papa's  arguments  and  to  ocular 
evidence,  she  was  forced  to  confess  that  I  was  homely  ;  and 
then,  wdien  I  thanked  her  for  the  dinner,  she  tapped  my  cheek 
and  said  : 
^  "  You  know,  Nikolinka,  that  no  one  will  love  you  for  j^our 
Jit*'  face  ;  therefore  you  must  endeavor  to  be  a  good  and  sensi- 
ble boy." 

These  words  not  only  convinced  me  that  I  was  not  a 
beauty,  but  also  that  I  should,  Avithout  fail,  become  a  good 
sensible  boy. 

In  spite  of  this,  moments  of  despair  often  visited  me  ;  I 
fancied  that  there  was  no  happiness  on  earth  for  a  person 
with  such  a  wide  nose,  such  thick  lips,  and  such  small  gray 
eyes  as  I  had  ;  I  besought  God  to  woi'k  a  miracle,  to  turn 
me  into  a  beauty,  and  all  I  had  in  the  present,  or  might 
have  in  the  future,  I  would  give  in  exchange  for  a  handsome 
face» 


CHILDHOOD.  в5 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

PRINCE    IVAN    IVANITCH. 

"When  the  Princess  had  heard  the  A^erses,  and  had  show- 
ered praises  npon  the  author,  grandmamma  relented,  began 
to  address  her  in  French,  ceased  to  call  her  you,^  and  mif 
dear,  and  invited  her  to  come  to  us  in  the  evening,  with  all 
her  children,  to  which  the  Pi-incess  consented  ;  and  afcer 
sitting  a  while  longer,  she  took  her  departure. 

So  many  visitors  came  that  day  with  congratulations,  that 
the  court-yard  near  the  entrance  was  never  free,  all  the 
morning,  from  several  carriages. 

'•Good-morning,  cousin,"  said  one  of  the  guests,  as  he 
entered  the  room,  and  kissed  grandmamma's  hand. 

He  was  a  man  about  seventy  years  of  age,  of  lofty  stature, 
dressed  in  a  militar}'  uniform,  Avith  big  epaulets,  from  be- 
neath the  collar  of  Avhich  a  large  white  cross  was  visible, 
and  with  a  calm,  frank  expression  of  countenance.  The 
freedom  and  simplicity  of  his  moA^ements  surprised  me. 
His  face  was  still  notably  handsome,  in  spite  of  the  fact 
that  onl}^  a  thin  semicircle  of  hair  was  left  on  the  nape  of 
the  neck,  and  that  the  position  of  his  upper  lip  betrayed  the 
lack  of  teeth. 

Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  had  enjoj'ed  a  brilliant  career  while 
he  was  still  \evy  young  at  the  end  of  the  last  century,  thanks 
to  his  noble  character,  his  handsome  person,  his  noteworthy 
bravery,  his  distinguished  and  powerful  family,  and  thanks 
especiallv  to  good  luck.  He  remained  in  the  service,  and  his 
ambition  was  very  speedily  so  thoroughly  gratified  that  there 
was  nothing  left  for  him  to  wish  for  in  that  direction.  From 
his  earliest  youth  he  had  conducted  himself  as  if  preparing 
himself  to  occupy  that  dazzling  station  in  the  worlil  in  which 
fate  eventually  |ilaced  him.  Th.orefore.  although  he  encoun- 
tered some  dibappointments.  disenciiantmeuts,  and  bitterness 

1  TluiL  IS  Ij  buy,  oliu  Ciiilc-d  liur  Ihuu. 


66  CHILDHOOD. 

in  his  brilliant  and  somewhat  vain-glorious  life,  such  as  all 
people  undergo,  he  never  once  changed  his  usual  calm  char- 
acter, his  lofty  manner  of  thought,  nor  his  well-grounded 
principles  of  religion  and  moralitj',  and  won  universal  re- 
spect, which  was  founded  not  so  much  on  his  brilliant  posi- 
tion as  upon  his  firmness  and  trustworthiness.  His  mind 
was  small ;  but,  thanks  to  a  position  which  permitted  him  to 
look  down  upon  all  the  л^а1п  bustle  of  life,  his  cast  of  thouglit 
was  elevated.  He  was  kind  and  feeling,  but  cold  and  some- 
лvhat  haught}'  in  his  intercourse  with  others.  This  arose  from 
the  circumstance  that  he  was  placed  in  a  position  where 
he  could  be  of  use  to  many  people,  and  he  endeavored  by 
his  cold  manner  to  protect  himself  against  the  incessant  peti- 
tions and  appeals  of  persons  who  onl}'  wished  to  take  advan- 
tage of  his  influence.  But  this  coldness  was  softened  b}'  the 
condescending  courtesy  of  a  man  of  the  very  hiijhest  society. 
He  was  cultivated  and  well  read ;  but  his  cultivation 
stopped  at  what  he  had  acquired  in  his  youth,  that  is  to  say, 
at  the  close  of  the  last  century.  He  had  read  every  tiling 
of  note  which  had  been  written  in  France  on  the  subject  of 
philosophy  and  eloquence  during  the  eighteenth  centur}' ;  he 
was  thoroughly  acquainted  with  all  the  best  products  of 
French  literature,  so  that  he  was  able  to  quote  passages 
from  Racine,  Corneille,  Boilean,  MoliOre,  Montaigne,  and 
Fenelon,  and  was  fond  of  doing  so  ;  he  possessed  a  brilliant 
knowledge  of  mythology,  and  had  studied  with  profit  the 
ancient  monuments  of  epic  poetry  in  the  French  translations  ; 
he  had  acquired  a  sufficient  knowledge  of  history  from  Segur  ; 
but  he  knew  nothing  at  all  of  mathematics  beyond  arithme- 
tic, nor  of  physics,  nor  of  contemporary  literature  ;  he  could 
maintain  a  courteous  silence  in  conversation,  or  utter  a  few 
commonplaces,  about  Goethe,  Schiller,  and  Byron,  but  he 
had  never  read  them.  In  spite  of  this  French  and  classical 
cultivation,  of  which  so  few  examples  still  exist,  his  conver- 
sation was  simple  ;  and  yet  this  simplicity  concealed  his 
ignorance  of  various  things,  and  exhibited  tolerance  and  an 
agreeable  tone.  He  was  a  great  enemy  of  all  originalit}^, 
declaring  that  originality  is  the  bait  of  people  of  bad  tone. 
Society  was  a  necessity  to  him,  wherever  he  might  be  living  ; 
wliether  ifi  ^Moscow  or  abroad,  he  always  lived  generously, 
and  on  certain  da^'s  received  all  the  town.  His  standing  in 
town  was  such  that  an  invitation  from  him  served  as  a  pass- 
port   to    all    drawing-rooms,    and    many  young   and    pretty 


стьвпооп.  67 

women  willingl}'  presented  to  him  their  rosy  cheeks  which  he 
kissed  with  a  kind  of  fatherly  feeling  ;  and  otlier,  to  all  ap- 
pearances, л'егз'  important  and  respectable  people  were  in  a 
state  of  indescribable  joy  when  they  were  admitted  to  the 
Prince's  parties. 

Verj-  few  people  were  now  left,  who,  like  grandmamma, 
had  been  members  of  the  same  circle,  of  the  same  age, 
possessed  of  the  same  education,  the  same  view  of  matters  ; 
and  for  that  reason  he  especially  prized  the  ancient  friendly 
connection  with  her,  and  always  showed  her  the  greatest 
respect. 

1  could  not  gaze  enough  at  the  Prince.  The  respect 
which  ел'егу  one  showed  him,  his  huge  epaulets,  the  par- 
ticular joy  which  grandmamma  manifested  at  the  sight  of 
liim,  and  the  fact  that  he  alone  did  not  fear  her,  treated  her 
with  perfect  ease,  and  even  had  the  daring  to  address  her  as 
ma  coushie,  inspired  me  with  a  reverence  for  him  which 
equalled  if  it  did  not  excel  that  which  1  felt  for  grandmannna. 
When  she  showed  him  my  A'erses,  he  called  me  to  him,  and 
said,  — 

"  Who  knows,  cousin,  but  this  may  be  another  Derzhavin  ?  " 

Thereupon  he  pinched  my  cheek  in  such  a  painful  manner 
that  if  I  did  not  сг}'  out  it  was  because  I  guessed  that  it 
must  be  accepted  as  a  caress. 

The  guests  dispersed.  Papa  and  Volodya  went  out :  only 
the  Prince,  grandmamma,  and  I  remained  in  the  drawing- 
room. 

"  AVhy  did  not  our  dear  Natalya  К1ко1аелта  come?" 
asked  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  suddenly,  after  a  momentary 
silence. 

"  Ah  !  vion  cher,"  replied  grandmamma,  bending  her  head 
and  la3"ing  her  hand  upon  the  sleeve  of  his  uniform,  "  she 
certainly  would  have  come  had  she  been  free  to  do  as 
she  wished.  She  лvrites  to  me  that  Pierre  proposed  that  she 
should  come,  but  that  she  had  refused  because  they  had  had 
no  income  at  all  this  j^ear ;  and  she  Avrites  :  '  Moreover,  there 
is  no  reason  why  I  should  remove  to  ]Moscow  this  з^еаг  with  the 
whole  household.  Liiibotchka  is  still  too  3'oung  ;  and  as  for 
the  bo^'s  who  are  to  Ил^е  with  you,  I  am  more  easj"  about 
tlieni  than  if  they  were  to  live  with  me.'  All  that  is  very 
fine  !  "  continued  grandmannna.  in  a  tone  which  showed  very 
plainly  that  she  did  not  consider  it  fine  at  all.  "The  l)oys 
should  luu'c  been  sent  here  long  ago,  in  order  that  they  might 


68  CTITLDIIOOD. 

learn  somethliifT,  and  become  ficcustomed  to  society.  What 
kind  of  education  was  it  possible  to  give  tlicm  in  the  coun- 
try? Why,  the  eldest  will  soon  be  thirteen,  and  the  other 
eleven.  You  have  observed,  cousin,  that  tliey  are  perfectly 
untamed  here  :  the}'  don't  know  how  to  enter  a  room." 

•'•  But  I  don't  undeistand,"  re[)lied  the  prince  :  "  why  these 
daily  complaints  of  reduced  circumstancco?  He  has  a  л'егу 
handsome  property,  and  Isataschinka's  КЬаЬагол'ка,  where  I 
played  in  the  theatre  with  you  once  upon  a  time,  I  know  as 
луе11  as  the  five  fingers  on  my  own  hand.  It's  a  wonderful 
estate,  and  it  must  always  bring  in  a  handsome  revenue." 

"  I  will  tell  you,  as  a  true  friend,"  broke  in  grandmamma, 
with  an  expression  of  sadness:  "it  seems  to  me  that  all 
excuses  are  simply  for  the  jiurpose  of  allowing  him  to  live 
here  alone,  to  lounge  about  at  the  clubs,  at  dinners,  and  to 
do  God  knows  what  else. .  But  she  suspects  uothiug.  You 
know  what  an  augel  of  goodness  she  is  ;  she  believes  him 
in  every  thing.  He  assured  her  that  it  was  necessary  to 
bring  the  children  to  Moscow,  and  to  leave  her  alone  with 
that  stui)id  governess  in  the  countr3%  and  she  believed  him. 
Jf  he  were  to  tell  her  that  it  Avas  necessary  to  whip  the  chil- 
dren as  Princess  Varvara  lliuitehna  whips  hers,  she  would 
prol^ably  agree  to  it,"  said  grandmamma,  turning  about  in 
her  chair,  with  an  expression  of  thorough  disdain.  ''  Yes, 
my  friend,"  pursued  grandmamma,  after  a  momentary  pause, 
taking  in  her  hand  one  of  the  two  handkerchiefs,  in  order  to 
Avipe  away  the  tear  which  made  its  appearance:  "I  often 
think  that  he  can  neither  value  her  nor  understand  her,  and 
that,  in  spite  of  all  her  goodness  and  love  for  him.  and  her 
efforts  to  conceal  her  grief,  —  I  know^  it  very  well,  —  she 
cannot  be  happy  with  him  ;  and  mark  my  w'ords,  if  he  does 
not  .  .   ." 

Grandmamma  covered  her  face  with  her  handkerchief. 

"Eh,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  Prince  reproachfully. 
"  I  see  that  you  have  not  gi'own  any  wisei'.  You  are  always 
mourning  and  weejnng  over  an  imaginary'  grief.  Come,  are 
you  not  ashamed  of  yourself?  I  have  known  him  for  a  long 
time,  and  I  know  him  to  be  a  good,  attentive,  and  л-ег^-  fine 
husband,  and,  what  is  the  principal  thing,  a  perfectly  honest 
man." 

Having  involuntarily  overheard  this  conversation  which  I 
ought  not  to  have  heard,  I  took  myself  out  of  the  room,  on 
tiptoe,  in  violent  emotion. 


CIIILDUOGD. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    IVINS.  I 

"  VoLODYA  !  Voloclya  !  the  Ivins  !  "  I  shouted,  catching 
siglit  from  the  window  of  three  boys  in  bhie  overcoats,  with 
beaver  collars,  who  were  crossing  from  the  opposite  sidewalk 
to  our  house,  headed  by  their  young  and  dandified  tutor. 

The  Ivins  were  related  to  us,  and  were  of  about  our  own 
age ;  we  had  made  their  acquaintance,  and  struck  up  a 
friendship  soon  after  our  arrival  in  Moscow. 

The  second  Ivin,  Serozha,  was  a  dark-complexioned,  curly- 
headed  boy,  with  a  determined,  turned-up  little  nose,  very 
fresh  red  lips,  which  seldom  completely  covered  the  upi)er 
row  of  his  white  teeth,  handsome  dark-blue  eyes,  and  a 
remarkably  alert  expression  of  countenance.  He  never 
smiled,  but  eitlier  looked  quite  serious,  or  laughed  heartily 
with  a  distinct,  ringing,  and  very  attractive  laugh.  His 
original  beauty  struck  me  at  first  sight.  I  felt  for  him  an 
unconquerable  liking.  It  was  sutficient  for  my  happiness  to 
see  him  :  at  one  time,  all  the  powers  of  my  soul  were  concen- 
trated upon  this  wish  ;  when  three  or  four  da3's  chanced  to 
pass  without  my  having  seen  him,  I  began  to  feel  bored  and 
sad  even  to  tear  .  All  my  dreams,  both  waking  and  sleep- 
ing, were  of  him  :  when  I  lay  down  to  sleep,  1  willed  to 
dream  of  him  ;  when  I  shut  my  eyes,  I  saw  him  before  me, 
and  cherished  the  vision  as  the  greatest  bliss.  I  could  not 
linve  brcuglit  myself  to  confess  this  feeling  to  any  one  in  the 
v.orh],  much  as  I  prized  it.  He  evidently  i)ref erred  to  play 
witli  \'olodya  and  to  talk  wilii  him,  lather  tlian  with  me,  pos- 
.sil)ly  because  it  annoyed  him  to  feel  my  restless  eyes  con- 
stantly fixed  upon  him,  or  simply  because  he  felt  no  sympathy 
forme:  but  nevertheless  I  was  content;  I  desired  notliing, 
dcmande<l  notlung.  and  was  read}'  to  sacrifice  every  thing  for 
him.  Besides  the  passionate  attachment  with  which  he  in- 
spired me,  his  presence  aroused  another  feeling  in  a  no  iess 
pcnverful  degree.  —  a  fear  of  i)aiuiug  or  ofteudiug  him  in  any 


CnTLDHOOD. 

.  of  displeasing  him.  I  felt  as  much  fear  for  him  as 
.,  perhaps  liecause  his  face  had  a  hauglity  expression,  or 
^ecause,  despising  my  own  appearance,  I  valued  the  advan- 
tage of  beauty  too  highly  in  others,  or,  what  is  most  probable 
of  all,  because  this  is  an  infallible  sign  of  love.  The  first 
time  Serozha  spoke  to  me,  I  lost  my  wits  to  such  a  degree 
at  this  unexpected  bliss,  that  I  turned  pale,  blushed,  and 
could  make  no  reply.  He  had  a  bad  habit  of  fixing  his  eyes 
upon  some  one  spot,  when  he  was  thinking,  and  of  winking 
incessantly,  at  the  same  time  twitching  h's  nose  and  eye- 
brows. Every  one  thought  tliat  this  trick  spoiled  him,  but  I 
thought  it  so  charming  that  I  involuntaril}^  accpiired  the  same 
habit ;  and  a  few  days  after  I  had  become  acquainted  with 
him,  grandmamma  inquired.  Did  my  eyes  pain  me,  that  I 
was  blinknig  like  an  owl?  Not  a  word  about  love  w^as  ever 
uttered  between  us ;  but  he  felt  his  power  over  me,  and 
exercised  it  unconsciousl}^  but  tyraunieally  in  our  childish 
intercourse.  And,  no  matter  how  hard  1  tried  to  tell  him 
all  that  was  in  my  mind,  1  was  too  much  afraid  of  him  to 
resolve  on  frankness ;  I  endeavored  to  seem  indifferent,  and 
submitted  to  him  without  a  murmur.  At  times  his  influence 
appeared  to  me  oppressive,  intolerable  ;  but  it  was  not  in  my 
power  to  escape  from  it. 

It  saddens  me  to  think  of  that  fresh,  beautiful  feeling  of 
unselfish  and  unbounded  love,  wliich  died  away  without  hav- 
ing found  vent,  or  met  with  a  return. 

It  is  strange,  how,  when  I  was  a  child,  I  strove  to  be  like 
a  grown-up  peison,  and  how,  since  I  have  ceased  to  be  a 
child,  I  have  often  longed  to  be  like  one.  i 

How  many  times  did  this  desire  not  to  seem  like  a  child  in  I 
jhij' intercourse  with  Serozha  restrain  the  feeling  which  was 
ready  to  pour  forth,  and  cause  me  to  dissimulate  !  I  not  only 
did  not  dare  to  kiss  him,  which  I  very  much  wanted  to  do  at 
times,  to  take  his  hand,  to  tell  him  that  I  лvas  glad  to  see 
him,  but  I  did  not  even  dare  to  call  him  Serozha,  but  kept 
strictly  to  Sergiei.  80  it  was  settled  between  us.  Elvery  ex- 
pression of  sentiment  betrayed  cliildishness,  and  that  he  who 
permitted  himself  any  thing  of  the  sort  was  still  a  little  boy. 
Without  having,  as  yet,  gone  through  those  bitter  trials  which 
lead  adults  to  caution  and  coldness  in  their  intercourse  with 
each  other,  we  deprived  ourselves  of  the  pure  enjoyment  of 
tender,  childish  affection,  simply  through  the  strange  desire  to 
imitate  yrowu-up  people,  / 


CIIILDHOOD.  71 

I  met  the  Ivius  in  the  anteroom,  exchanged  greetings  with 
them,  and  then  flew  headlong  to  grandmamma.  1  announced 
that  the  Ivins  had  arrived;  and,  from  my  expression,  one 
would  have  supposed  that  this  news  must  render  her  com- 
pletely happy.  Then,  without  taking  my  eyes  from  .Serozha, 
1  followed  him  into  the  drawing-room,  watching  his  every 
movement.  While  grandmamma  was  telling  him  that  he  had 
grown  a  great  deal,  and  fixed  her  peneti'ating  eyes  u[)on  him, 
1  experienced  that  sensation  of  terror  and  hope  wliich  a 
painter  must  experience  when  he  is  awaiting  the  verdict  upon 
his  work  from  a  judge  whom  he  respects. 

Herr  Frost,  the  Ivins'  young  tutor,  with  grandmamma's 
permission,  went  into  the  front  garden  with  us,  seated  him- 
self on  a  green  bench,  crossed  his  legs  picturesquely,  placing 
between  them  a  cane  with  a  bronze  head,  and  began  to  smoke 
his  cigar  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  is  very  well  satisfied  with 
his  own  conduct. 

Herr  Frost  was  a  Gicrman,  but  a  German  of  a  л-егу  different 
cut  from  our  good  Karl  Ivanitch.  In  the  first  place,  he  spoke 
Russian  correctly,  he  spoke  Frencli  with  a  bad  accent,  and 
generally  enjoyed,  especially  among  the  ladies,  the  reputation 
of  being  a  very  learned  man  ;  in  the  second  place,  he  wore  a 
red  mustache,  a  big  ruby  pin  in  his  black  satin  cravat,  the 
ends  of  which  were  tucked  under  his  suspenders,  and  light  lilue 
trousers  with  spring  bottoms  and  straps  ;  in  the  third  place, 
he  was  3'oung.  had  a  handsome,  self-satisfied  exterior,  and 
remarkably  fine  muscular  legs.  It  was  evident  that  he  set  a 
particular  value  on  this  last  advantage  ;  he  considered  its 
effect  irresistible  on  members  of  the  female  sex,  and  it  must 
have  been  with  this  view  that  he  tried  to  exhibit  his  legs  in 
the  most  conspicuous  place,  and,  whether  standing  or  sitting, 
iihvays  put  his  calves  in  motion.  He  was  a  type  of  the  young 
Ktissian  German,  who  aspires  to  be  a  gay  fellow,  and  a  lady's 
man. 

It  was  very  lively  in  the  garden.  Our  game  of  robbers 
could  not  have  been  more  successful ;  but  one  circumstance 
came  near  ruining  every  thing.  Serozha  was  the  robber:  as 
he  was  hastening  in  jHU'suit  of  ti'avellers,  he  stumbled,  and 
in  full  flight  struck  his  knee  vvitli  so  much  force  agamst  a 
tree  that  I  thought  he  had  shivered  it  into  splinters.  In  spite 
of  the  fact  that  I  was  the  gendarme,  and  that  my  duty  con- 
sisted in  capturing  him,  I  approached,  and  sympathetically 
inquired   whether  he  had  hurt  iiimself.      Serozha  got  angry 


72  CHILDHOOD. 

with  me  :  he  clinched  his  fists,  stamped  his  foot,  and  in  a 
voice  which  plainly  betrayed  that  he  had  injured  himself 
badly,  he  shouted  at  me,  — 

"  Well,  what's  this?  After  this  we'll  Ьал^е  no  more  games  ! 
Come,  why  don't  you  catch  me?  why  don't  you  catch  me?  " 
he  repeated  seA^eral  times,  glancing  sideways  at  Volodya  and 
the  elder  Ivin,  who,  in  their  character  of  travellers,  were  leap- 
ing and  running  along  the  path  ;  and  all  at  once  he  gave  a 
shriek,  and  rushed  after  them  with  a  loud  laugh. 

I  cannot  describe  how  this  heroic  conduct  impressed  and 
captivated  me.  In  spite  of  the  terrible  pain,  he  not  only  did 
not  cry,  but  he  did  not  even  show  that  he  was  hurt,  and 
never  for  a  moment  forgot  the  game. 

Shortly  after  this,  when  llinka  Grap  also  joined  our  com- 
pany, and  we  went  up-stairs  to  wait  for  dinner,  Serozha  had 
another  opportunity  of  enslaving  and  amazing  me  with  his 
marvellous  manliness  and  firmness  of  character. 

llinka  Grap  was  the  son  of  a  poor  foreigner  who  had  once 
lived  at  my  grandfather's,  was  indebted  to  him  in  some  way, 
and  now  considered  it  his  imperative  duty  to  send  his  son  to 
us  very  often.  If  he  supposed  that  an  acquaintance  with 
us  could  afford  any  honor  or  satisfaction  to  his  sou,  he  was 
entirely  mistaken  ;  for  we  not  only  did  not  make  friends  with 
llinka,  but  we  only  noticed  him  when  we  wanted  to  make 
fun  of  him.  llinka  Grap  was  a  thin,  tall,  pale  boy  of  thir- 
teen, with  a  bird-like  face,  and  a  good-naturedl}'  submissive 
expression.  He  was  very  poorly  dressed,  but  his  hair  was 
always  so  excessively  greased  that  we  declared  that,  on  sunny 
days,  Grap's  pomade  melted  and  trickled  down  under  his 
jacket.  As  I  recall  him  now,  1  find  that  he  was  very  willing 
to  be  of  service,  and  a  very  quiet,  kind  boy  ;  but  at  that 
time  he  appeared  to  me  as  a  contemptible  being,  whom  it 
was  not  necessary  to  pity  or  even  to  think  of. 

When  the  game  of  robbers  came  to  an  end,  we  went  up- 
stairs and  began  to  cut  capers,  and  to  sliow  off  various  gym- 
nastic tricks  before  each  otlier.  lUnka  watched  us  with  a 
timid  smile  of  admiration,  and  when  we  proposed  to  him  to 
do  the  same,  he  refused,  saying  that  he  had  no  strength  at 
all.  Serozha  was  wonderfully  charming.  He  took  off  his 
jacket.  His  cheeks  and  eyes  were  blazing ;  he  laughed  in- 
cessantl}',  and  invented  new  tricks;  he  leaped  over  three 
chairs  placed  in  a  row,  trundled  all  over  the  room  like  a 
wheel,  stood  on  his  head  on  Talischef's  lexicon,   whicli  he 


CHILDHOOD.  73 

placed  in  the  middle  of  the  room  for  a  pedestal,  and  at  the 
same  time  cut  such  funny  capers  with  his  feet  that  it  was 
impossible  to  refrain  from  laughing.  After  this  last  perform- 
ance he  became  thoughtful,  screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  went 
up  to  Ilinka  with  a  perfectly  sober  face,  ''  Try  to  do  that ; 
it  really  is  not  difficult."  Grap,  perceiving  that  general 
attention  was  directed  to  him,  turned  red,  and  declared,  in 
a  scarcely  audible  voice,  that  he  could  do  nothing  of  the 
kind. 

"  And  why  won't  he  show  off  anyway?  What  a  girl  he 
is  !  he  must  stand  on  his  head." 

And  Serozha  took  him  by  the  hand. 

"You  must,  you  must  stand  on  your  head!"  we  all 
shouted,  surrounding  Ilinka,  лvho  at  that  moment  was  visibly 
terrified,  and  turned  pale ;  then  we  seized  his  arms,  and 
dragged  him  to  the  lexicon. 

"  Let  me  go,  I'll  do  it  myself!  You'll  tear  my  jacket," 
cried  the  unliapp}-  victim.  But  these  cries  of  despair  im- 
parted fresh  animation  to  us  ;  we  were  dying  with  laughter : 
the  green  jacket  was  cracking  in  ever}-  seam. 

Volodya  and  the  eldest  Ivin  bent  his  head  down  and  placed 
it  on  the  dictionary  ;  Serozha  and  I  seized  the  poor  boy's 
thin  legs,  which  he  flourished  in  all  directions,  stripped  up 
his  trousers  to  the  knee,  and  with  great  laughter  turned  them 
up  ;  the  youngest  Iviu  preserved  the  equilibrium  of  his  whole 
body. 

After  our  noisy  laughter,  we  all  became  suddenly  silent ; 
and  it  was  so  quiet  in  the  room,  that  the  unfortunate  Grap's 
breathing  alone  was  audible.  At  that  moment  I  was  by  no 
means  thoroughly  convinced  that  all  this  was  so  very  laugh- 
able and  amusing. 

"  There's  a  fine  fellow,  now,"  said  Serozha,  slapping  him. 

Ilinka  remained  silent,  and  in  his  endeavor  to  free  himself 
flung  his  logs  out  in  all  directions.  In  one  of  these  des- 
perate movements,  he  struck  Serozha  in  the  eye  with  his  heel 
in  such  a  painful  manner,  that  Serozha  immediately  released 
his  leg,  clasped  his  own  eye,  from  which  the  unbidden  tears 
were  streaming,  and  pushed  Ilinka  with  all  his  might.  Ilinka, 
being  no  longer  supported  by  us,  went  down  on  the  floor  with 
a  crash,  like  some  lifeless  object,  and  all  he  could  utter  for 
his  tears  was : 

"■  Why  do  you  tyrannize  over  me  so?  " 

The  woful  figure  of  poor  Ilinka,  with  his  tear-stained  face, 


74  cniLBUOoB. 

disordered  hair,  and  his  tucked-up  trousers,  xinder  which  his 
dirty  boot-legs  were  visible,  impressed  us  :  we  did  not  speak, 
and  we  tried  to  smile  in  a  constrained  fashion. 

8erozha  was  the  first  to  гесол'ег  himself. 

"  There's  a  woman,  a  bawler,"  he  said,  pushing  him  light-- 
ly  with  his  foot:  "  it's  impossible  to  joke  with  him.  Come, 
enough  of  that;  get  up." 

"  1  told  you  that  you  were  a  good-for-nothing  little  l)oy," 
said  Ilinka  angrily,  and  turning  away  he  sol)bed  loudly. 

''AVliat!  you  use  your  heels,  and  then  scold!  "  screamed 
Serozha,  seizing  the  lexicon,  and  swinging  it  over  the  head 
of  the  wretched  boy,  who  never  thought  of  defending  himself, 
and  only  covered  his  head  with  his  hands. 

"There!  there!  Let's  drop  him,  if  he  can't  understand 
a  joke.  Let's  go  down-stairs,"  said  tSerozha,  laughing  in  au 
unnatural  way. 

I  gazed  with  sj'mpathy  at  the  poor  fellow,  who  lay  on  the 
floor,  hiding  his  face  on  the  lexicon,  and  crying  so  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  on  the  point  of  dying  of  the  convul- 
sions which  shook  his  whole  body. 

''  He^^  vSergiei !  "  I  said  to  him,  "  why  did  you  do  that?  " 

"  That's  good  !  I  didn't  cry,  1  hope,  when  1  cut  ray  knee 
nearly  to  the  bone  to-day." 

''  Yes,  that's  true,"  1  thought ;  "  Ilinka  is  nothing  but  a 
bawler  ;  but  there's  Serozha,  he  is  so  brave.  What  a  manly 
fellow  he  is  !  " 

I  had  no  idea  that  the  poor  boy  was  crying,  not  so  much 
from  phj'sical  pain,  as  from  the  thought  that  five  bo3's, 
whom  he  probably  liked,  had  all  agreed,  without  any  cause, 
in  hating  and  persecuting  him. 

I  really  cannot  explain  to  myself  the  cruelty'  of  this  con- 
duct. Why  did  I  not  go  to  him,  protect  him,  comfort  him? 
What  had  become  of  that  sentiment  of  pity,  which  had  for- 
merly made  me  cry  violently  at  the  sight  of  a  young  daw 
which  had  been  thrown  from  its  nest,  or  a  puppy  which  was 
to  be  thrown  out  of  the  garden,  or  a  chicken  which  the  cook 
was  carrying  off  for  soup  ? 

Had  this  beautiful  feeling  been  destroyed  in  me,  by  love 
for  Serozha,  and  the  desire  to  appear  as  maul}'  in  his  sight 
as  he  was  himself?  That  1ол'е,  and  that  desire  to  appear 
manly,  were  not  enviable  qualities.  They  were  the  cause  of 
the  onl}'  dark  spots  in  the  pages  of  my  childish  memories. 


CHILDHOOD.  75 


CHAPTER   XX. 

THE    GUESTS    ASSEMBLE. 

Judging  from  the  special  activity  perceptible  in  the  pantry, 
the  brilliant  illnmination  which  imparted  a  new  and  festive 
aspect  to  ol)jects  in  the  drawing-room  and  .salon,  which  had 
long  been  familiar  to  me,  and  particnlarly  judging  from  the 
fact  that  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  would  not  have  sent  his  music 
for  nothing,  a  large  number  of  guests  were  expected  for 
the  evening. 

I  ran  to  the  window  at  the,  sound  of  every  passing  car- 
riage, put  the  palms  of  my  hand  to  my  temples  and  against 
the  glass,  and  gazed  into  the  street  with  impatient  curiosity. 
Through  the  darkness,  which  at  first  covered  all  objects 
from  the  window,  there  gradually  appeared,  across  the  way, 
a  long  familiar  shop,  with  a  lantern  ;  in  an  ol)lique  line,  a 
large  house  with  two  lighted  Avindovvs  on  the  lower  floor ;  in 
tlie  middle  of  the  street  some  Viuiku^^  with  two  passengers, 
or  an  empty  calash  returning  home  at  a  foot-pace  ;  but  now 
a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  porch,  and  in  the  full  conviction 
that  it  was  the  I\ins,  who  had  promised  to  come  early,  I  ran 
down  to  meet  them  in  the  aute-room.  Instead  of  the  Ivins, 
two  ladies  made  their  appearance  behind  the  liveried  arm 
wliich  opened  the  door :  one  was  large,  and  wore  a  blue 
cloak  with  a  sable  collar;  the  other,  who  was  small,  was  all 
wrapped  up  in  a  green  shawl,  beneath  which  her  little  feet, 
shod  in  fur  boots,  alone  were  visible.  Paying  no  attention 
to  my  presence  in  the  ante-room,  although  I  considered  it 
my  duty  to  make  my  bow  when  these  pei'sons  appeared,  the 
little  one  walked  up  to  the  big  one,  and  halted  in  front  of 
her.  The  big  one  unwound  tlie  kerchief  which  covered  the 
little  one's  liead,  unbuttoned  her  cloak,  and  when  the  livvried 
footman  took  charge  of  these  things,  and  pulled  off  her  little 
fur  boots,  there  appeared  from  this  nuich-wrapped-up  indi- 

'  Loc:il  tcnii  fur  a  poor  rustic  driver,  wlio  ciilors  servico  for  the  winter  in  town. 


76  CIIILDUOOD. 

vidnal,  a  wonderful  twelve-year-old  little  girl,  dressed  in  a 
low-necked  white  muslin  frock,  white  pantalettes,  and  tin}' 
black  slip[)ers.  There  was  a  black  velvet  ribbon  on  her  little 
white  neck  ;  her  head  was  a  mass  of  dark  chestnut  cuils, 
which  suited  her  lovely  face  admirably,  and  fell  upon  her 
white  shoulders  behind  so  beautifully,  that  I  would  not  have 
believed  Karl  Ivanitch  himself  if  he  had  told  me  that  they 
curled  so  because  they  had  been  twisted  up  in  bits  of  ■'  The 
IMoscow  Gazette"  ever  since  the  morning,  and  pinched  with 
hot  irons.  She  seemed  to  have  been  born  with  that  curly 
head. 

A  stiiking  feature  of  her  face  was  her  nnusuall}'  large, 
prominent,  half-closed  eyes,  which  formed  a  strange  but 
agreeable  contrast  to  her  small  mouth.  Iler  li[)s  were  tightly 
closed;  and  her  eyes  had  such  a  serious  look,  and  the  gen- 
eral expression  of  her  face  was  such,  'that  зюи  Avould  not  look 
for  a  smile  on  it ;  and  therefore  a  smile  was  all  the  more 
enchanting. 

I  crept  to  the  door  of  the  hall,  endeavoring  to  remain 
unperceived,  and  decided  that  it  would  be  well  to  walk  back 
and  forth  feigning  meditation,  and  that  I  was  not  aware  ttiat 
guests  had  arrived.  AVhen  thej'  had  traversed  half  the 
apartment,  I  apparently  came  to  myself,  made  my  bow,  and 
informed  them  that  grandmamma  was  in  the  drawing-room. 
Madame  Valakhina,  whose  face  pleased  me  extremely,  espe- 
cially because  I  discerned  in  it  a  strong  resemblance  to  her 
daughter  Sonitchka,  nodded  graciously  to  me. 

Grandmamma  appeared  to  be  very  glad  to  see  Sonitchka: 
she  called  her  close  to  her,  adjusted  one  of  her  curls  which 
had  fallen  over  her  forehead,  and,  gazing  attentively  at  her 
face,  she  said,  ''What  a  charming  child!"  Sonitchkai 
smiled  and  blushed  so  prettily  that  I  l)lushed  also  as  I  looked 
at  her. 

•'  I  hope  3'ou  will  not  be  bored  here,  ni}^  little  friend," 
said  grandmamma,  taking  hold  of  her  chin,  and  raising  her 
little  face.  "  I  beg  that  you  will  be  merry  and  dance  as 
much  as  possible.  Ыеге  is  one  lady  and  two  cavaliers,"  she 
added,  turning  to  Madame  Valakhina,  and  touching  me  with 
her  hand. 

Tins  biinging  us  together  pleased  me  so  much  that  it  made 
me  blush  again. 

Conscious  that  my  shyness  was  increasing,  and  hearing 
thii  noise  of  another  cariiage  as  it  drove  up,  1  deemed  it  best 


cniLDUoon.  77 

to  make  a  retreat.  In  the  ante-room  I  fonncl  Princess  Kor- 
nakova  with  her  son  and  an  incredible  number  of  daughters. 
The  daughters  were  all  exactly  alike  in  countenance,  —  they 
resembled  the  Princess,  and  were  ugly  :  therefore  no  one  of 
them  arrested  my  attention.  As  they  took  off  their  cloaks, 
and  shook  out  their  trains,  they  all  began  suddenly-  to  talk  in 
thin  little  voices  as  they  fussed  and  laughed  at  something  — 
probably  because  there  were  so  man}'  of  them.  Etienne  was 
a  tall,  fleshy  lad  of  fifteen,  with  a  bloodless  face,  sunken 
eyes  with  blue  circles  beneath  them,  and  hands  and  feet 
which  were  enormous  for  his  age  :  he  was  awkward,  had  a 
rough  and  disagreeable  voice,  but  appeared  very  well  satis- 
fied with  himself,  and  according  to  my  views  he  was  precisely  ' 
the  sort  of  boy  who  gets  whipped  with  a  switch. 

We  stood  for  quite  a  while  oppcjsite  each  other,  without 
uttering  a  word,  examining  each  other  attentively.  Then  we 
approached  a  little  nearer,  apparentl}^  with  the  desire  to  kiss 
each  other,  but  we  clianged  our  minds  for  some  reason  or 
other  after  we  had  looked  in  each  other's  eyes.  When  the 
dresses  of  all  his  sisters  rustled  past  us,  I  inquired,  for  the 
sake  of  beginning  the  conversation,  whether  tliey  were  not 
crowded  in  the  carriage. 

•'I  don't  know,"  he  answered  carelessly,  "for  I  пел'ег 
ride  in  the  carriage,  because  just  as  soon  as  I  take  my  seat  I 
begin  to  feel  ill,  and  mamma  knows  it.  When  we  go  any- 
where in  the  evening,  I  always  sit  on  the  box.  It's  much 
jollier,  you  can  see  every  thing ;  and  Philip  lets  me  drive, 
and  sometimes  I  have  the  whip.  Sometimes  I  do  .so  to  the 
passers-by,"  he  added  with  an  expressive  gesture:  "it's 
splendid  Г " 

"Your  excellency,"  said  the  footman,  entering  the  ante- 
room, "Philip  wants  to  know  where  you  were  pleased  to 
put  the  луЬ1р?  " 

"  AVhat's  the  matter?     I  gave  it  to  him." 

"  He  says  that  you  did  not." 

"  Well,  then  I  hung  it  on  the  lantern." 

"  Philip  says  that  it  is  not  on  the  lantern  ;  and  you  had 
better  say  that  you  took  it  and  lost  it,  or  Philip  will  have  to 
pay  for  your  pranks  out  of  his  small  Avages,"  continued  the 
angry  footman  with  increasing  animation. 

The  footman,  wdio  seemed  to  be  a  respectable  but  sullen 
man,  appeared  to  take  Philip's  side,  and  was  resolved  to  clear 
up  this  matter  at  any  cost.     From  an  involuntary  feeling  of 


78  cniLDnooj). 

delicacy  I  stepped  aside  as  though  I  had  obsen'ed  nothing. 
But  the  lackeys  who  were  present  behaved  quite  differently  : 
they  came  nearer,  and  gazed  approvingly  at  the  old  servant. 

"  Well,  I  lost  it,  I  lost  it,"  said  Etienne,  avoiding  further 
explanations.  "I'll  pay  him  what  the  whip  Is  worth.  This 
is  amusing  !  "  he  added,  approaching  me,  and  leading  mc 
towards  the  drawing-room. 

"  No,  master,  how  will  you  pay?  I  know  3'ou  have  been 
eight  months  paying  Marya  Vasilievna  twenty  kopeks,  and  it's 
the  same  in  my  case,  and  it's  two  years  since  Petrushka  "  — 

"  Hold  your  tongue  !  "  shouted  the  3'oung  prince,  turning 
pale  with  rage.     "  I'll  tell  all  about  it." 

"You'll  tell  all,  you'll  tell  all!"  went  on  the  footman. 
"This  is  bad,  your  excellency,"  he  added  with  a  peculiar 
expression  as  we  entered  the  drawing-room,  and  he  went  to 
the  wardrobe  with  the  cloaks. 

"That's  right,  that's  right!"  said  an  approving  voice 
behind  us  in  the  ante-room. 

Grandmamma  had  a  peculiar  gift  for  expressing  her  opin- 
ion of  people  by  adding  to  a  certain  tone  on  certain  occa- 
sions the  singular  and  plural  pronouns  of  the  secoi.d  person. 
Although  she  employed  you  and  thou  in  direct  opposition  to 
the  generally  received  usage,  these  shades  of  meaning  ac- 
quired an  entirely  different  significance  in  her  mouth.  When 
the  young  prince  approached  her,  she  at  first  addressed  a  few 
words  to  him,  calling  him  yon,  and  regarding  him  with  such 
an  expression  of  scorn  that  had  I  been  in  his  place  I  should 
have  become  utterlj-  abashed.  But  evidently  Etienne  was  not 
a  boy  of  that  stamp  :  he  not  only  paid  no  heed  to  grand- 
mamma's reception,  but  even  to  her  person,  and  saluted  the 
whole  company,  if  not  gracefull}'  at  least  without  constraint. 
Sonitchka  occupied  all  my  attention.  I  remember  that  when 
Volodya,  Etienne,  and  I  were  talking  together  in  a  part  of  the 
room  from  which  Sonitchka  was  visible,  and  she  could  see 
and  hear  us,  I  spoke  with  pleasure  ;  when  I  had  occasion  to 
utter  what  seemed  to  me  an  amusing  or  manly  remark,  I 
spoke  loudly,  and  glanced  at  the  drawing-room  door ;  but 
when  we  changed  to  another  place  from  which  it  was  impos- 
sible to  be  seen  or  heard  from  the  drawing-room,  I  remained 
silent,  and  found  no  further  pleasure  in  the  conversation. 

The  drawing-room  and  salon  gradually  tilled  with  guests. 
As  alwaj^s  happens  at  children's  parties,  there  were  several 
large;  children  among  the  number,  who  were  not  willing  to 


CHILDHOOD.  79 

miss  an  opportunity  of  dancing  and  making  merry,  if  only 
for  the  sake  of  pleasing  the  hostess. 

AVhen  the  Ivins  arrived,  instead  of  the  pleasure  which  I 
generally  experienced  at  meeting  Serozha,  I  was  conscious 
of  a  certain  strange  vexation  because  he  would  see  Souitchka 
and  would  show  оЙ'  to  her. 


v^ 


80  CHILDHOOD. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

BEFORE    THE    MAZURKA. 

"Eh!  yoii  are  evidently  going  to  have  dancing,"  said 
Serozha,  coming  from  the  drawing-room,  and  pulling  a  pair 
of  new  kid  gloves  from  his  pocket:  "I  must  put  on  П13' 
gloves." 

"What's  that  for?  we  have  no  gioл'es,"  I  thought:  "I 
must  go  up-stairs,  and  hunt  for  some." 

But  although  I  rummaged  all  the  drawers,  all  I  found 
was,  in  one,  our  green  travelling  mittens  ;  in  another,  one 
kid  glove  which  was  of  no  зеглчсе  whatever  to  me,  in  the 
first  place  because  it  was  very  old  and  dirty,  in  the  second 
because  it  was  too  large  for  me,  and  especially  because  the 
middle  finger  was  wanting,  having  been  cut  off  long  ago, 
ргоЬа1)1зг  by  Karl  Ivanitch  for  a  sore  hand.  Nevertheless  1 
put  this  remnant  of  a  glove  upon  my  hand,  and  regarded 
intently  that  place  upon  my  middle  finger  which  was  always 
smeared  with  ink. 

"  If  Natalya  Savischna  were  only  here,  she  would  surely 
find  me  some  gloves."  It  was  impossible  to  go  down-stairs 
in  such  a  plight,  because,  if  they  asked  me  why  I  did  not 
dance,  what  could  I  say?  To  remain  here  was  equallj'^  im- 
possible, because  I  should  infallibly  be  caught.  "  What  am 
I  to  do?"    I  said,  flouiisiiing  ni}'  hands. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  asked  Л''olodya,  running 
iu :  "go  engage  3'our  lady,  it  will  begin  directly." 

"  Yolodya,"  I  said  to  him,  displa^'iug  ni}'  hand,  with  two 
fingers  sticking  out  of  the  dirt}'  glove,  and  expressing  in  my 
voice  that  I  was  in  a  state  which  bordered  on  despair,  — 
"  Volodya,  3'ou  never  thought  of  this." 

"Of  what?"  said  he  impatiently.  "Ah!  gloves,"  he 
added  quite  indifferent^,  catching  sight  of  ni}'  hand.  "No, 
I  didn't,  in  fact.  You  must  ask  grandmamma.  What  will 
she  say  ?  "  and,  without  pausing  to  refiect,  he  ran  down-stairs. 


CHILDHOOD.  83 

The  cold-bloodedness  with  which  he  expressed  hiuTir^(^|  q-\^_ 
a  point  which  seemed  to  me  so  weighty,  re-assured  me,^.,tpj. 
I  hastened  to  the  drawing-room,  totally'  oblivious  of  tht. 
grotesque  glove  on  my  left  hand. 

Approaching  grandmamma's  arm-chair  with  caution,  and 
touching  her  mantle  lightly,  1  said  in  a  whisper : 

"Grandmamma!  what  are  we  to  do?  ЛУе  have  no 
gloves  !  " 

"  What,  my  dear?  " 

"We  have  no  gloves,"  I  repeated,  drawing  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  laying  both  hands  on  the  arm  of  her  chair. 

"And  what  is  this?"  she  said  all  at  once  seeing  my 
left  hand.  "See  here,  my  dear,"  she  went  on,  turning 
to  Madame  Valakhina,  "this  young  man  has  made  himself 
elegant  in  order  to  dance  with  your  daughter." 

Grandmamma  held  me  firmly  by  the  hand,  and  gazed 
seriously  but  inquiringly  at  her  guests  until  all  had  satisfied 
their  curiosity,  and  the  laugh  had  become  general. 

I  should  have  been  very  much  troubled  if  Serozha  had 
seen  me  during  the  time,  when,  frowning  with  shame,  I 
vainly  endeavored  to  tear  my  hand  free  ;  but  I  was  not  at  all 
pained  in  the  presence  of  Sonitchka,  who  laughed  until  her 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears,  and  all  her  curls  fluttered  about 
her  rosy  little  face.  1  understood  that  her  laugh  was  too 
loud  and  natural  to  be  mocking :  on  the  contrary,  we 
laughed  together,  and  seemed  to  come  nearer  to  each  other 
as  we  exchanged  glances.  This  episode  of  the  glove,  although 
it  might  end  badly,  gained  me  this  advantage,  that  it  placed 
me  on  easy  terms  with  a  circle  which  had  always  seemed  to 
me  most  terrible,  —  the  drawing-room  circle;  I  felt  not  the 
slightest  timidity  in  the  hall. 

The  sufferings  of  shy  people  arise  from  their  uncertainty 
as  to  the  opinion  which  people  have  formed  of  them  :  as 
soon  as  this  opinion  is  o[>ciily  demonstrated,  —  in  whatever 
form  it  may  occur,  —  this  suffering  ceases. 

How  charming  Sonitchka  Valakhina  was,  as  she  danced 
opposite  me  in  the  French  quadrille  with  the  clumsy  young 
Prince !  How  sweetly  she  smiled  when  she  gave  me  her 
little  hand  in  the  chain  !  How  prettily  her  golden  curls 
waved  in  measure,  how  naively  she  brought  her  tiny  feet 
together  !  AVhen,  in  the  fifth  figure,  my  i)artner  left  me  and 
went  to  the  other  side,  while  1  waited  for  tlie  time  and  piv- 
pared  to  execute  my  solo,  Sonitchka  clobtd  her  lii)s  srriunsly 


80  CUILDIIOOD. 

i<ed  aside.  But  her  fear  for  me  was  unnecessary, 
jidly  made  my  chasse  to  the  front,  chasse  to  the  rear, 
and  ray  glide  ;  and  when  I  ai)proaehed  her,  I  phiyf uUy  showed 
her  my  glove  with  my  two  fingers  sticking  out.  She  laughed 
excessively,  and  her  little  feet  tripped  about  upon  the  waxed 
floor  more  bewitchingly  than  ever.  I  still  rem^'mber  how, 
when  we  formed  a  circle  and  all  joined  hands,  she  bent  her 
little  head,  and,  without  removing  her  hand  from  mine, 
scratched  her  little  nose  with  her  glove.  I  can  still  see  all 
this  as  though  it  were  directly  before  \ny  eyes,  and  I  still 
hear  the  quadrille  from  ''ТЬе  Maid  of  the  Danube,"  to 
whose  music  all  this  took  place. 

The  second  quadrille  arriA'cd,  and  I  danced  it  with  So- 
nitchka.  After  seating  myself  beside  her,  I  felt  extremely 
awkward,  and  did  not  know  in  the  least  what  to  say  to  her. 
IVhen  my  silence  had  lasted  too  long,  I  began  to  fear  that 
she  would  take  me  for  a  fool ;  and  I  resolved  to  rescue  her 
from  any  such  error  on  my  account,  at  any  cost.  ''  You  are 
an  inhal)itant  of  Moscow?  "  I  said  to  her,  and  after  receiv- 
ing an  answer  in  the  affirmative,  I  went  on  :  "  For  my  part, 
I  have  never  yet  frequented  the  capital,"  with  a  calculation 
as  to  the  effect  which  the  word  "  frequent"  would  produce. 
Nevertheless,  I  felt  that  although  this  was  a  very  brilliant 
beginning,  and  full^-  proved  my  Ivuowledge  of  the  РЧ-ench 
tongue,  1  was  incapable  of  continuing  the  conversation  in 
this  strain.  Our  turn  to  dance  would  not  come  very  soon, 
but  the  silence  was  renewed.  I  gazed  at  her  uneasily,  de- 
sirous of  knowing  what  impression  I  had  produced,  and 
awaiting  her  assistance.  "  Where  did  you  find  such  a  funny 
glove?"  she  inquired  suddenly;  and  this  question  caused 
me  the  greatest  pleasure  and  relief.  I  explained  that  the 
glove  belonged  to  Karl  Ivanitch,  went  into  some  rather  ironi- 
cal details  concerning  Karl  Ivanitch's  person,  —  how  ridicu- 
lous he  was  when  he  took  off  his  red  cap  ;  and,  how  he  had 
once  fallen  from  a  liorse,  when  dressed  in  his  green  overcoat, 
straight  into  a  puddle,  and  so  forth.  The  quadrille  passed 
off  without  our  perceiving  it.  All  this  was  very  delightful ; 
but  wh}'  did  I  ridicule  Karl  Ivanitch?  Should  I  have  lost 
Sonitchka's  good  opinion  if  I  had  described  him  with  the 
love  and  respect  луЬ{сЬ  I  felt  for  him  ? 

When  the  quadrille  came  to  an  end,  Sonitchka  said,  "Thank 
V'ou,"  with  as  sweet  an  expression  as  though  I  had  really 
deserved  her  «ratitude.     1  was  in  ecstasies.     I  was  l)eside 


CHILDHOOD.  83 

myself  with  joy,  and  did  not  know  myself  whence  I  had  ob- 
tained such  daring,  confidence,  and  even  boldness.  "  Noth- 
ing can  confnse  me,"  I  thought,  promenading  about  the 
salon  quite  unembarrassed  ;  ''I  am  ready  for  an}'  thing." 

iSerozha  proposed  to  me  to  be  his  vis-a-vis.  "Very  well," 
said  I,  **I  have  no  partner,  but  I  will  find  one."  Casting 
a  decisive  glance  about  the  room,  I  perceived  that  all  the 
ladies  were  engaged  with  the  exception  of  one  big  girl,  who 
Avas  standing  at  the  parlor  door.  A  tall  young  man  ap- 
proached her  with  the  intention,  as  I  concluded,  of  inviting 
her  to  dance  ;  he  was  within  a  couple  of  paces  of  her,  but 
I  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  hall.  In  the  twinkling  of 
an  eye,  I  flew  across  the  space  which  separated  her,  sliding 
gracefully  over  the  polished  floor,  and  Avith  a  scrape  of  my 
foot  and  a  firm  voice.  I  invited  her  for  the  contra-dance. 
The  big  girl  smiled  patronizingly,  gave  me  her  hand,  and 
the  5'oung  man  was  left  partnerless. 

I  was  so  conscious  of  my  power,  that  I  paid  no  heed  to 
the  3'ouug  man's  vexation  ;  but  I  afterwards  learned  that  he 
inquired  who  that  frowsy  bo}-  was,  who  had  jumped  in  front 
of  him  and  taken  away  Jais  partner. 


84  CniLDHOOD. 


CHAPTER   XXII. 

THE    MAZURKA. 

The  young  man  whom  I  had  robbed  of  his  lady,  danced  in 
the  first  couple  of  the  mazurka.  He  sprang  from  his  place, 
holding  his  lady  by  the  hand,  and,  instead  of  making  the 
pas  de  Basques  as  Mimi  had  taught  us,  he  simply  ran  for- 
ward. When  he  had  reached  the  corner,  he  halted,  cracked 
his  heels,  turned  around,  and  went  skipping  on  farther. 

As  I  had  no  partner  for  the  mazurka,  I  sat  behind  grand- 
mamma's high  chair,  and  looked  on. 

'' Why  does  he  do  that?"  I  pondered.  "That's  not  at 
all  as  Mimi  taught  us.  8he  declared  that  everybody  danced 
the  mazurka  on  their  toes,  bringing  their  feet  round  in  a 
gliding  circular  form  ;  and  it  turns  out  that  they  don't  dance 
that  way  at  all.  There  are  the  Ivins  and  Etienne  and  all 
of  them  dancing,  and  they  are  not  doing  the  />as  de  Basques. 
And  our  Volodya  has  picked  up  the  new  fashion  !  It's  not 
bad !     And  how  lovel}'  Souitchka  is  !     There  she  goes  !  " 

I  was  very  merry. 

The  mazurka  was  nearing  its  end.  Several  elderlv  ladies 
and  gentlemen  came  up  to  take  leave  of  grandmanmia,  and 
departed.  The  lackeys,  skilfully  keeping  out  of  the  way  of 
the  dancers,  brought  the  dishes  into  the  back  room.  Grand- 
mamma was  evidently  weary,  and  seemed  to  speak  unwill- 
ingly and  in  a  very  drawling  waN' :  the  musicians  indolently 
began  the  same  air  for  the  thirtieth  time.  The  big  girl  with 
whom  1  liad  danced  caught  sight  of  me  as  she  was  going 
through  a  figure,  and  smiling  treacherously,  —  she  must  have 
wanted  to  please  grandmamma,  — she  led  Sonitclika  and  one 
of  the  innumerable  princesses  up  to  me.  "Rose  or  nettle?" 
said  she. 

"Ah,  so  you  are  here!"  said  grandmamma,  turning 
I'ound  in  her  chair.      "  Go,  my  dear,  go." 

Althouiih  at  that  moment  1  would  much  rather  ha\e  hid 


CHILDnOOD.  85 

my  head  under  grandmamma's  chair,  than  emerge  from  be- 
hind it,  how  could  I  refuse ?  I  stood  up,  and  said  ''  Rose," 
as  1  glanced  timidly  at  Souitchka.  Before  I  could  гесолег 
myself,  some  one's  hand  in  a  white  kid  glove  rested  in  mine, 
and  the  princess  started  forward  with  a  pleasant  smile,  with- 
out the  least  suspicion  that  1  did  not  in  the  least  know  what 
to  do  with  mj'  feet. 

I  knew  that  the  p^rs  de  Basques  was  out  of  place,  un- 
suitable, and  that  it  might  even  put  me  to  shame  ;  but  the 
well-known  sounds  of  the  Mazurka  acting  upon  my  ear, 
communicated  a  familiar  movement  to  the  acoustic  nerves, 
which,  in  turn,  communicated  it  to  my  feet ;  and  the  latter, 
quite  involuntarily,  and  to  the  amazement  of  all  beholders, 
began  the  fatal  circular  gliding  step  on  the  tips  of  the  toes. 
As  loug  as  we  proceeded  straight  ahead,  we  got  on  after  a 
fashion  ;  but  when  we  turned  I  observed,  that,  unless  I  took 
some  precautions,  I  should  certainly  get  in  advance.  In 
order  to  avoid  such  a  catastrophe  I  stopped  short,  with  the 
intention  of  making  the  same  kind  of  knee  which  the  3'oung 
man  in  the  first  couple  made  so  beautifully.  But  at  the 
very  moment  w'hen  I  separated  my  feet,  and  was  preparing 
to  spring,  the  princess,  circling  hastily  around  me,  looked 
down  at  ni}'  feet  w'ith  an  expression  of  stupid  curiosity'  and 
amazement.  That  look  finished  me.  I  lost  my  self-com- 
mand to  such  an  extent,  that  instead  of  dancing  I  stamped 
my  feet  up  and  down  in  one  spot  in  a  fashion  which  resem- 
bled nothing  on  earth,  and  finall}'  came  to  a  dead  stand-still. 
Every  one  stared  at  me,  some  with  surprise,  others  with 
curiosity,  with  amusement,  or  sympathy  ;  grandmamma  alone 
looked  on  Avith  complete  indifference. 

''You  should  not  dance  if  you  do  not  know  how,"  said 
jiapa's  angry  voice  in  my  ear ;  and  thrusting  me  aside  with 
a  light  push,  he  took  my  partner's  hand,  danced  a  turn  Avith 
her  in  antique  fashiou,  to  the  A-ast  delight  of  the  lookers-on, 
and  led  her  to  her  seat.  The  mazurka  immediately  came  to 
an  end. 

Lord  !  wh}'  dost  thou. chastise  me  so  terribly^? 

Everybody  despises  me,  and  will  always  scorn  me.  The 
paths  to  every  thing,  love,  friendshi[),  honor,  are  shut  to 
me.  AH  is  lost!  Why  did  ЛЪЬх1уа  make  signs  to  me 
wliich  ever3'  one  saw,  and  which  could  render  me  no  assist- 
ance ?     Why  did  that  hateful  princess  look  at  my  feet  like 


86  CHILDHOOD. 

that?  Why  (lid  Sonitchka  —  she  was  lovely,  but  why  did 
she  smile  just  theu?  Why  did  papa  blush,  and  seize  my 
hand?  was  even  he  asliamed  of  me?  Oh,  this  was  frightful ! 
If  mamma  had  been  there,  she  would  uot  have  blushed  for 
her  Nikolinka.  And  my  fancy  bore  me  far  awa}'  to  this 
sweet  vision.  I  recalled  the  meadow  in  front  of  the  house, 
the  tall  linden-trees  in  the  garden,  the  clear  pond  over  which 
the  swallows  tluttered,  tlie  blue  sk}"  in  which  hung  transpar- 
ent white  clouds,  the  perfumed  stacks  of  fresh  hay  ;  and 
many  other  joyous,  soothing  memories  were  borne  in  upon 
шу  distracted  uuaginatiou. 


CHILDUOOD.  87 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

AFTER   THE    MAZURKA. 

At  supper,  the  young  man  who  had  danced  in  the  first 
couple  sat  down  at  our  children's  table,  and  paid  special 
attention  to  me,  which  would  have  flattered  my  vanity  not  a 
little,  if  I  had  been  capable  of  any  sentiment  whatever  after 
the  catastrophe  which  had  occurred  to  me.  But  the  young 
man  seemed  determined  to  cheer  me  up  on  any  terms.  He 
played  with  me,  he  called  me  a  fine  fellow  ;  and  when  none 
of  the  grown-up  people  were  looking  at  us,  he  poured  me 
glasses  of  wine  out  of  various  bottles,  and  made  me  drink 
them.  At  the  end  of  the  supper,  when  the  waiter  poured  me 
only  a  quarter  of  a  glass  of  champagne  from  his  napkin- 
wrapped  bottle,  and  the  youug  man  insisted  that  he  should 
pour  it  full,  and  made  me  swallow  it  at  one  gulp,  I  felt  an 
agreeable  warmth  through  all  my  body,  and  a  special  kindli- 
ness towards  m}'  jolly  protector,  and  I  laughed  excessively 
over  something. 

All  at  once  the  sounds  of  the  grandfather  dance  resounded 
from  the  salon,  and  the  guests  began  to  rise  from  the  table. 
My  friendship  with  the  young  man  immediately  came  to  an 
end ;  he  went  off  to  the  big  people,  and  I,  not  daring  to  fol- 
low, approached  with  a  curiosity  to  hear  what  Madame 
Valakhina  was  saying  to  her  daughter. 

*■' Just  another  little  half-hour,"  said  Souitchka  entreat- 
ingly. 

"It  is  really  impossible,  m}-  angel." 

"Come,  for  my  sake,  please,"  she  said  coaxingly. 

"  Will  it  make  you  happy  if  I  am  ill  to-morrow?"  said 
Madame  Valakhina,  and  was  so  inipi'udent  as  to  smile. 

"Oh,  you  permit  it!  we  may  stay?"  cric^d  Souitchka, 
dancing  with  joy. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  with  you?  Well  then,  go,  dance. 
Here's  a  cavalier  for  you,"  she  said,  pointing  at  me. 


88  -  CniLDIIOOD. 

Sonitchka  gave  me  her  hand,  and  we  ran  into  the  salon. 

The  wine  which  I  had  drunk,  tSonitchka's  presence  and 
gayety,  caused  me  to  completely  forget  my  miserable  scrape 
in  the  mazurka.  I  cut  amusing  cai)ers  with  my  feet ;  1  imi- 
tated a  horse,  and  went  at  a  gentle  trot,  lifting  m}'  legs 
proudly,  then  I  stamped  on  one  spot  like  a  ram  Avho  is  angr^' 
at  a  dog,  and  laughed  heartil}',  without  caring  in  the  least 
what  impression  I  might  produce  upon  the  spectators. 
Sonitchka,  too,  never  ceased  to  laugh  ;  she  laughed  when  we 
circled  round  hand  in  hand,  she  laughed  when  she  looked  at 
some  old  gentleman  who  lifted  his  feet  with  care  and  stepped 
over  a  handkerchief,  pretending  that  it  was  very  difficult  for 
him  to  do  it,  and  she  nearly  died  of  laughter  when  I  leaped 
almost  to  the  ceiling  in  order  to  display  my  agility. 

As  I  passed  through  grandmamma's  study,  I  glanced  at 
myself  in  the  mirror:  my  face  Avas  bathed  in  perspiration, 
тз'  hair  was  in  disorder,  the  tuft  on  the  crown  of  my  head 
stood  up  worse  than  ever ;  but  the  general  expression  of  my 
countenance  was  so  merry,  kind,  and  healthy,  that  I  was 
even  pleased  W4th  myself. 

"  If  I  were  always  like  this,"  I  thought,  "  I  might  be  able 
to  please." 

But  when  I  glanced  again  at  the  very  beautiful  little  face 
of  my  partner,  there  was  in  it,  besides  the  expression  of 
gayety,  health,  and  freedom  from  care,  which  had  pleased  me 
in  my  own,  so  much  gentle  and  elegant  beauty,  that  I  was 
vexed  with  myself.  I  comprehended  how  stupid  it  was  of 
me  to  call  the  attention  of  such  a  wonderful  being  to  myself. 
I  could  not  hope  for  a  reciprocal  feeling,  and,  indeed,  I  did 
not  think  of  it :  my  soul  was  filled  with  bliss  independent 
of  that.  I  did  not  understand  that  in  return  for  the  love 
which  filled  my  soul  with  joy,  still  greater  happiness  might  be 
demanded,  and  that  something  more  was  to  be  desired  than 
that  this  feeling  might  never  end.  All  was  well  with  me. 
My  heart  fluttered  like  a  dove,  the  blood  poured  iuto  it 
incessantly,  and  I  wanted  to  ег}-. 

AVhen  we  went  through  the  comdor,  past  the  dark  store- 
room under  the  stairs,  I  glanced  at  it,  and  thought :  What 
bliss  it  would  be  if  I  could  live  forever  with  her  in  that  dark 
storeroom  !  and  if  nobody  knew  that  we  lived  there. 

''It's  very  jolly  now,  isn't  it?"  I  said  in  a  quiet,  ti'em- 
bling  voice,  and  hastened  my  stej^s.  frightened  not  so  much 
at  what  1  had  said,  but  at  what  1  had  been  mindetl  to  say. 


CfllLDflOOD.  89 

"Yes,  very, "-she  replied,  turning  her  little  head  towards 
me,  with  sucli  a  frank,  kind  expression  that  m}-  fears  ceased. 

"Especially  after  supper.  But  if  you  only  knew  how 
sorry  [I  Avanted  to  say  j^ciined,  but  did  not  dare]  I  ain  that 
you  are  going  away  so  soon,  and  that  we  shall  not  see  each 
other  any  inore  !  " 

"  Why  shall  we  not  see  each  other?  "  said  she,  regarding 
intently  the  toes  of  her  slippers,  and  drawing  her  fingers 
along  the  grated  screen  which  we  were  passing.  "  Mamma 
and  I  go  to  the  Tversky  boulevard  every  Tuesday  and  Friday. 
Don't  you  go  to  walk  ?  " 

"  I  shall  ask  to  go  without  fail  on  Tuesday  ;  and  if  they 
won't  let  me  go,  I  will  run  away  alone,  and  without  my  hat. 
I  know  the  way." 

"  Do  you  know,"  said  Sonitchka  suddenly,  "  I  always  say 
thou  to  some  little  boys  who  come  to  our  house  ;  let  us  call 
each  other  thou.  Wilt  thou?  "  she  added  throwing  back  her 
little  head,  and  looking  me  straight  in  the  eye. 

At  this  moment  we  entered  the  salon,  and  the  second, 
livelv  part  of  grandfather  was  beginning.  "Do,"  I  said  at 
a  point  when  the  noise  and  music  could  drown  my  words. 

"  Say  thoii,"  ^  corrected  Sonitchka,  with  a  laugh.  ■ 

"  Grandfather"  ended,  and  I  had  not  managed  to  utter  a 
single  phrase  with  thou,  although  1  never  ceased  inventing 
such  as  would  allow  of  several  repetitions  of  that  pronoun. 
I  had  not  sufficient  courage.  "Wilt  thou?"  resounded  in 
my  ears,  and  produced  a  kind  of  intoxication.  I  saw  nothing 
and  nobody  but  Sonitchka.  I  saw  them  lift  her  locks,  and 
tuck  them  behind  her  ears,  disclosii>g  portions  of  her  brow 
and  temples  which  I  had  not  seen  before  ;  I  saw  them  wrap 
her  up  in  the  green  shawl  so  closely,  that  only  the  tip  of  her 
little  nose  was  visible  ;  I  observed  that  if  she  had  not  made 
a  little  aperture  near  her  mouth  with  her  rosy  little  fingers,  she 
wcjuld  infaUibly  have  suffocated  ;  and  I  saw  how  she  turned 
quickly  towards  us,  as  she  descended  the  stairs  with  her 
mother,  nodded  her  head,  and  disappeared  through  the  door. 

Volodya,  the  Ivins,  the  young  Prince,  and  1  were  all  in 
love  with  Sonitchka,  and  we  followed  her  with  our  eyes  as 
we  stood  on  the  stairs.  I  do  not  know  to  whom  in  particu- 
lar she  nodded  her  little  head  ;  but  at  that  moment  I  was 
firmly  convinced  that  it  was  done  for  me. 

1  Nikolai  used  davai-te,  the  second  person  plural.  Sonitchka  said  datai,  second 
person  singular. 


90  CniLDnOOD. 

As  I  took  leave  of  the  Ivins,  I  couverserl  and  shook  hands 
quite  iinconstrainedly,  and  even  rather  coldly,  with  Serozha. 
If  he  understood  that  on  that  day  he  had  lost  my  love,  and 
his  power  over  me,  he  was  surely  sorry  for  it,  though  he 
endeavored  to  appear  quite  indifferent. 

For  the  fii'st  time  in  my  life  I  had  changed  in  love,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  experienced  the  sweetness  of  that  feeling. 
It  delighted  me  to  exchange  a  worn-out  sentiment  of  familiar 
affection  for  the  fresh  feeling  of  a  love  full  of  mystery  and 
uncertainty.  Moreover,  to  fall  out  of  love  and  into  love  at 
the  same  time  means  loving  with  twice  the  previous  fervor. 


CHILDHOOD.  91 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


"How  could  I  love  Serozlia  so  passionately,  and  so  long?  " 
1  meditated,  as  I  lay  in  bed,  "•  No,  he  never  understood, 
he  never  was  capable  of  prizing  my  love,  and  he  was  never 
worthy  of  it.  And  Sonitchka?  how  charming  !  '  Wilt  thou?  * 
'  It  is  thy  turn  to  begin.'  " 

I  sprang  up  on  all  fours,  as  I  pictured  to  myself  her  little 
face  in  lively  colors,  covered  my  head  with  the  coverlet, 
tucked  it  under  me  on  all  sides,  and  when  no  opening  re- 
mained an}- where,  I  lay  down,  and,  with  a  pleasant  sensation 
of  warmth,  buried  myself  in  sweet  visions  and  memories. 
Fixing  my  gaze  immovably  upon  the  lining  of  the  wadded 
quilt,  I  saw  her  as  clearly  as  I  had  seen  her  an  hour  before  ; 
I  conversed  with  her  mentally,  and  that  conversation,  though 
utterly  lacking  in  sense,  afforded  me  iudescribal)le  delight, 
because  thee,  to  thee,  and  thine  occurred  in  it  constantly. 

These  visions  were  so  clear  that  I  could  not  sleep  for  sweet 
emotion,  and  I  wanted  to  share  my  superabundance  of  bliss 
with  some  one. 

"  The  darling !  "  I  said  almost  aloud,  turning  abruptly  оц 
the  other  side.     "  Volodya  !  are  you  awake?  " 

"  No,"  he  replied  in  a  sleepy  voice  :  "  what  is  it?  " 

"  I  am  in  love,  Volodya.  I  am  decidedly  in  love  with 
Sonitchka." 

"  AVell,  Avhat  of  it?  "  he  answered,  stretching  himself. 

"O  Volodya!  you  cannot  imagine  what  is  going  on  with- 
in me  ;  here  I  was  just  now  lying  tucked  up  in  the  coverlet, 
and  I  saw  her  so  plainly,  so  plainly,  and  I  talked  with  her ; 
it  wassimjily  marvellous  !  And,  do  yon  know,  when  1  lie  and 
think  of  her  I  grow  sad,  and  1  want  to  weep  dreadfully, 
God  knows  why." 

Volodya  moved. 

"  There's  only  one  thing  I  wish,"  I  went  on  :  "  that  is,  to 


92  CniLDIIOOD. 

be  always  with  her,  to  see  her  always,  and  nothing  else. 
And  are  you  in  love?     Confess  the  truth,  Volodya !  " 

It's  odd,  but  I  wanted  everybody  to  be  in  love  \vith  So- 
nitchka,  and  then  I  wanted  them  all  to  tell  me. 

"  What  is  that  to  3'ou  ?  "  said  Volodya,  turning  his  face 
towards  me,  —  '■'■  perhaps." 

"You  don't  Avant  to  sleep;  you  were  making  believe!  " 
I  cried,  perceiving  by  his  shining  eyes  that  he  was  not  think- 
ing of  sleep  in  the  least ;  and  I  flung  aside  the  coverlet. 
"Let's  discuss  her.  She's  charming,  isn't  she?  80  charm- 
ing that  if  she  were  to  say  to  me  :  '  Nikolascha  !  jump  out  of 
the  window,  or  throw  yourself  into  the  fire,'  —  well,  1  swear 
I  should  do  it  immediately,"  said  I,  "and  with  joy.  Ah, 
how  bewitching!  "  I  added,  as  I  called  her  before  me  in 
imagination,  and  in  order  to  enjoy  myself  in  this  manner  to 
the  fullest  extent,  I  rolled  abruptly  over  on  the  other  side, 
and  thrust  my  head  under  the  pillow.  "  I  want  to  cry 
dreadfully,  Volodya !  " 

"  What  a  fool !  "  said  he  smiling,  and  then  was  silent  for 
a  while.  "  I'm  not  a  bit  like  you  :  I  think  that,  if  it  were 
possible,  I  should  like  at  first  to  sit  beside  her  and  talk." 

"  Ah  !  so  you  are  in  love  too?  "  I  interrupted. 

"And  then,"  continued  Volodya,  smiling  tenderly,  "then 
I  would  kiss  her  little  fingers,  her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  nose, 
her  tin}'  feet,  —  I  would  kiss  all." 

"  Nonsense  !  "  cried  I  from  under  the  pillow. 

"  You  don't  understand  any  thing  about  it,"  said  Volodya 
contemjituously. 

"Yes,  I  do  understand,  but  you  don't,  and  3'ou're  talkiug 
nonsense,"  I  said  tlirough  my  tears. 

"  AVell,  there's  nothing  to  cry  about.  She's  a  genuine 
oirll" 


CHILDHOOD.  93 


CHAPTER  XXV. 


THE    LETTER. 


On  the  16th  of  April,  nearly  six  months  after  the  clay 
which  I  have  described,  father  came  np-stairs  to  us,  during 
our  lesson  liour,  and  announced  to  us  that  we  were  to  set 
out  for  the  country  with  him  tliat  night.  My  heart  con- 
tracted at  this  news,  and  my  thoughts  turned  at  once  to  my 
mother. 

The  following  letter  was  the  cause  of  our  unexpected  de- 
parture :  — 

Petrovskoe,  April  12. 

I  have  but  just  recpived  your  kind  letter  of  April  .3d,  at  ten  o'clock 
in  the  evening,  and,  in  accordance  with  my  usual  custom,  I  answer  it 
immediately.  Fedor  l)rought  it  from  town  last  night,  but,  as  it  was 
late,  he  gave  it  to  Mimi.  And  Mimi,  under  the  pretext  that  I  was  ill 
and  unnerved,  did  not  give  it  to  me  for  a  whole  day.  I  really  have 
had  a  little  fever,  and,  to  tell  the  truth,  this  is  the  fourth  day  that  I 
have  been  too  ill  to  leave  my  bed. 

Pray  do  not  be  alarmed,  my  dear;  I  feel  very  well,  and  if  Ivan 
Vasilitch  will  permit  me,  I  intend  to  get  up  to-morrow. 

On  Friday  of  last  week.  I  went  to  ride  with  the  children;  but  the 
horses  stuck  in  the  nuid  close  to  the  entrance  to  the  higliAvay,  near 
tiiat  very  bridge  which  has  always  frightened  me.  The  day  was  \erf 
fine,  and  I  thought  I  would  go  as  far  as  the  highway  on  foot,  while 
they  pulled  the  calash  out.  When  I  reached  tlie  chapel,  I  was  very 
nui'di  faiigued,  and  sat  down  to  rest;  and  about  half  an  hour  elapsed 
while  they  were  sunmioning  people  to  drag  the  carriage  out.  I  felt 
col  1,  particularly  in  my  feet,  for  I  had  on  thin-soled  shoes,  and  they 
were  wet  through.  After  dinner  I  felt  a  chill  and  a  hot  turn,  but  I 
coutinued  to  walk  according  to  the  usual  programme,  and  after  tea 
I  sat  down  to  play  a  duet  Avith  Liubotchka.  ( Vou  would  not  recog- 
nize her,  she  has  made  such  progress!)  But  imagine  my  surprise, 
when  I  found  that  I  could  not  count  the  time.  I  began  to  count 
several  times,  but  my  head  was  all  in  confusion,  and  I  felt  a  strange 
n;)ise  in  my  ears.  I  counted  one,  two,  three,  then  all  at  once  eiglit 
and  fifteen;  and  the  chief  point  was  tliat  I  saw  that  I  was  lying,  and 
could  not  correct  myself.  Finally  Mimi  came  to  my  assistance,  and 
put  me  to  bed,  almost  by  force.  This,  my  dear,  is  a  circmnstaiitial 
account  of  how  I  became  ill,  and  how  I  myself  am  to  W  ime.     The 


94  CHILDHOOD, 

next  day,  I  had  quite  a  high  fever,  and  oiir  good  old  Ivan  Vasilitch 
came:  he  still  lives  with  us,  and  promises  to  set  me  free  speedily  in 
God's  world  once  more.  Л  wonderful  old  man  is  tliat  Ivan  Vasilitch! 
When  I  had  the  fever,  and  was  delirious,  he  sat  beside  my  bed  all 
night,  without  closing  his  eyes;  and  now  he  knows  that  I  am  writing, 
he  is  sitting  in  the  boudoir  with  the  girls,  and  from  my  bedroom  I  can 
hear  him  telling  them  German  tales,  and  them  dying  with  laughter 
as  they  listen. 

La  belle  Flamande,  as  you  call  her,  has  been  staying  with  me  for 
two  weeks  past,  because  her  mother  has  gone  off  visiting  somewhere, 
and  she  evinces  the  most  sincere  affection  by  her  care  for  me.  She 
intrusts  me  with  all  her  secrets  of  the  heart.  If  she  were  in  good 
hands,  she  might  turn  out  a  very  fine  girl,  with  her  beautiful  face, 
kind  lieart,  and  youth;  but  she  will  be  utterly  ruined  in  the  society  in 
whicli  sbe  lives,  judging  from  her  own  account.  It  has  occurred  to 
me,  that,  if  I  had  not  so  many  children,  I  should  be  doing  a  good  deed 
in  taking  charge  of  her. 

Liubotchka  wanted  to  Avrite  to  you  herself;  but  she  has  already 
torn  up  the  third  sheet  of  paper,  and  says:  "I  know  what  a  scoffer 
papa  is;  if  you  make  a  single  mistake,  he  shows  it  to  everybody." 
Katenka  is  as  sweet  as  ever,  Mimi  as  good  and  stupid. 

Now  I  will  talk  to  you  about  serious  matters.  You  write  that  your 
affairs  are  not  going  well  this  winter,  and  that  it  is  indispensable  that 
you  should  take  the  money  from  Khabarovka.  It  surprises  me  that 
you  should  even  ask  my  consent  to  that.  Does  not  what  belongs  to 
me  belong  equally  to  you  ? 

You  are  so  kind  an  1  good,  that  you  conceal  the  real  state  of  things, 
from  the  fear  of  troubling  me:  but  I  guess  that  you  have  probably 
lost  a  great  deal  at  play,  and  I  assure  you  that  I  am  not  angry  at  you; 
therefore,  if  the  matter  can  only  be  arranged,  pray  do  not  think  too 
much  of  it,  and  do  not  worry  yourself  needlessly.  I  bave  become  ac- 
customed not  to  count  upon  your  winnings  for  the  children,  but  even 
(excuse  me)  on  your  whole  estate.  Your  winnings  cause  me  as  little 
pleasure  as  your  losses  cause  pain:  the  only  thing  which  does  pain 
me  is  your  unhappy  passion  for  gambling,  which  deprives  me  of 
a  portion  of  your  tender  attachment,  and  makes  me  tell  you  such 
bitter  truths  as  I  tell  you  now;  and  God  knows  how  this  hurts  me! 
I  shall  not  cease  to  pray  God  for  one  thing,  that  he  will  save  you,  not 
from  poverty  (what  is  poverty?),  but  from  that  frightful  situation, 
when  the  interests  of  the  children,  which  I  am  bound  to  protect,  shall 
come  into  conflict  with  ours.  Heretofore  tbe  Lord  has  fulfilled  my 
prayer:  you  have  not  passed  the  line  beyond  which  we  must  either 
sacrifice  our  property,  —  which  no  longer  belongs  to  us,  but  to  ош* 
children,  —  or  —  and  it  is  terrible  to  think  of,  but  this  horrible  misfor- 
tune continu;illy  tbreatens  us.  Yes,  it  is  a  heavy  cross  which  the  Lord 
has  sent  to  both  of  us. 

You  write  about  the  children,  and  return  to  our  old  dispute:  you 
ask  me  to  consent  to  send  them  to  some  educational  institution.  You 
know  my  prejudices  against  such  education. 

I  do  not  know,  my  dear  friend,  whether  you  will  agree  with  me; 
but  I  beseech  you,  in  any  case,  to  promise,  out  of  love  for  me,  that  as 
long  as  I  live,  and  after  my  death,  if  it  shall  jilease  God  to  part  us, 
never  to  do  this. 

You  write  that  it  is  indispensable  that  you  should  go  to  Petersburg 


CUILDIIOOD.  93 

about  our  affairs.  Christ  be  with  you,  my  friend;  go  and  return  as 
speedily  as  possible.  It  is  so  wearisome  for  all  of  us  without  you! 
The  spi'ing  is  wonderfully  beautiful.  The  balcony  door  has  already 
been  taken  down,  the  paths  to  the  orangery  were  perfectly  dry  four 
days  ago,  the  peach-trees  are  in  full  bloom,  the  snow  lingers  in  a  few 
spots  only,  the  swallows  have  come,  and  now  Liubotchica  has  brought 
me  the  first  spring  tlowers.  The  doctor  says  I  shall  be  quite  Avell  in 
three  days,  and  may  breathe  the  fresh  air,  and  warm  myself  in  the 
April  sun.  Farewell,  dear  friend:  pray  do  not  луоггу  about  my  illness, 
nor  about  your  losses;  finisli  your  business  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
come  to  us  with  the  children  for  the  whole  summer.  I  am  making 
famous  plans  for  passing  it,  and  you  alone  are  lacking  to  their  realiza- 
tion. 

The  remaining  portion  of  the  letter  was  written  in  French, 
in  a  cramped  and  uneven  hand,  on  a  second  scrap  of  paper. 
I  translate  it  word  for  word  :  — 

Do  not  believe  what  I  wrote  to  you  about  my  Illness ;  no  one  sus- 
pects how  serious  it  is.  I  alone  know  that  I  shall  never  rise  from  my 
bed  again.  Do  not  lose  a  moment:  come  and  bring  the  children. 
Perhaps  I  may  be  able  to  embrace  them  once  again,  and  bless  them: 
that  is  my  last  wish.  I  know  what  a  terrible  blow  I  am  dealing  you; 
but  it  matters  not:  sooner  or  later  you  would  receive  it  from  me,  or 
from  others.  Let  us  try  to  bear  this  misfortune  with  firmness,  and 
hope  in  God's  mercy.     Let  us  submit  to  His  will. 

Do  not  think  that  what  I  write  is  the  raving  of  a  delirious  imagin- 
ation: on  the  contrary,  my  thoughts  are  remarkably  clear  at  this 
moment,  and  1  am  perfectly  composed.  Do  not  comfort  yourself  with 
vain  hopes,  that  these  are  but  the  dim  deceitful  presentiments  of  a 
timid  soul.  No,  I  feel,  I  know  —  and  I  know  because  God  was 
pleased  to  reveal  this  to  me  —  that  I  have  not  long  to  live. 

Will  my  love  for  you  and  the  children  end  with  this  life?  I  know 
that  this  is  imi)ossible.  I  feel  too  strongly  at  this  moment  to  think  that 
this  feeling,  without  which  I  cannot  conceive  of  existence,  could  ever 
be  annihilated.  My  soul  cannot  exist  without  its  love  for  you;  and 
I  know  that  it  will  exist  forever,  from  this  one  thing,  that  such  a 
sentiment  as  my  love  could  never  arise,  were  it  ever  to  come  to  an  end. 

1  shall  not  be  with  you,  but  I  am  firmly  convinced  that  my  love 
will  never  leave  you;  and  tliis  thought  is  so  comforting  to  my  heart, 
that  I  await  my  fast  apijroaching  death,  calmly,  and  without  terror. 

I  am  calm,  and  G(jd  knows  tliat4  have  always  regarded  death,  and 
still  regard  it,  as  a  passage  to  a  better  life;  but  why  do  tears  crush  me? 
Why  deprive  the  childi-en  of  their  beloved  mother?  Why  deal  you  so 
heavy,  so  unlooked-for  a  blow?  ^Vhy  must  1  die,  when  your  love  has 
rendered  life  boundlessly  happy  for  me? 

May  His  holy  will  be  done! 

I  can  write  no  more  for  tears.  Perhaps  I  shall  not  see  you.  I 
thank  you,  my  precious  friend,  for  all  the  happiness  with  Avhich  you 
have  surrounded  me  in  this  life;  I  shall  pray  God  there,  that  he  will 
reward  you.  Farewell,  dear  friend ;  remember,  when  I  am  no  more, 
that  my  love  wiil  never  abandon  you,  wherever  you  may  be.  Fare- 
well Volodya,  fai'ewell  my  angel,  farewell  Benjamin,  my  Nikolinka. 
\       W^ill  they  ever  forget  me? 

\ 


06  CniLDnOOD. 

This  letter  enclosed  a  note  in  French,  from  Mimi,  which 
read  c4s  follows  :  — 

The  sa  1  presentiments  of  which  she  speaks  are  Imt  too  well  con- 
firmeJ  by  tlie  doctor's  words.  Last  night  slie  ordered  tliis  letter  to  he 
talcen  to  the  post  at  once.  Thinking  that  slie  said  tliis  in  delirium,  I 
Avaited  until  this  morning,  and  then  made  up  my  mind  to  open  it.  No 
sooner  had  I  done  so,  than  Natalya  Nilcolaevna  asked  me  what  I  had 
done  Avith  the  letter,  and  ordered  me  to  burn  it  if  it  had  not  been 
sent.  Slie  keeps  speaking  of  it  and  declai-es  that  it  Avill  kill  you.  Do 
not  delay  your  coming,  if  you  wish  to  see  this  angel  while  she  is  still 
left  with  us.  Excuse  this  scrawl.  I  have  not  slept  for  three  nights. 
You  know  how  I  love  her! 

Natalya  Savisclina,  who  had  passed  the  entire  night  of 
the  11th  of  April  in  mamma's  chamber,  told  me,  that,  after 
writing  the  first  part  of  the  letter,  mamma  laid  it  on  the 
little  table  beside  her,  and  went  to  sleep. 

"I  confess,"  said  Natal3'a  Savisclina,  "that  I  dozed  in 
the  arm-chair  myself,  and  my  stocking  fell  from  my  hands. 
But,  about  one  o'clock,  I  heard  in  my  dreams,  that  she 
seemed  to  be  couv^ersing  with  some  one  ;  I  opened  my  eyes, 
and  looked  :  she  was  sitting  up  in  bed,  my  little  doA^e,  with 
her  little  hands  folded  thus,  and  her  tears  were  flowing  in 
streams.  '  So  all  is  over?'  she  said,  and  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  I  sprang  up  and  began  to  inquire,  '  What 
is  the  matter  with  j'ou  ?  ' 

"  'Ah,  Natalya  Savischna,  if  you  onl}^  knew  what  I  have 
just  seen  !  ' 

"  But  in  spite  of  all  my  questions,  she  would  say  no  more ; 
she  merely  ordered  me  to  bring  the  little  table,  wrote  some- 
thing more,  commanded  me  to  seal  the  letter  in  her  presence, 
and  send  it  off  immediately.  After  that,  things  grew  worse 
and  worse." 


CUlLLUOOn.  97 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

WIIAT    АЛ^АТТЕВ    US    IX    THE    COUNTRY. 

Ox  the  2')th  of  April  we  descended  from  the  travellinc; 
carriage  at  the  porch  of  the  Petrovskoe  house.  Papa  hatl 
been  very  thoughtful  when  we  left  Moscow,  and  when  Volodva 
asked  him  whether  mamma  was  not  ill,  he  looked  sadly  at 
him,  and  nodded  in  silence.  During  the  journey  he  evidently 
grew  more  composed  ;  but  as  we  approached  home  his  face 
assumed  a  more  and  more  mournful  expression,  and  when, 
on  alighting  from  the  calash,  he  asked  Foka,  who  ran  pantmg 
out,  '"  Where  is  Natalya  Nikolaevna?  "  his  \o\cq  Avas  not 
firm,  and  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  Good  old  Foka 
glanced  at  us,  dropped  his  eyes,  and,  opening  the  door  of  the 
anteroom,  he  turned  aside  and  answered  : 

''  She  has  not  left  her  room  in  six  days." 

31  ilka,  who.  as  I  afterwards  learned,  had  not  ceased  to 
howl  mournfully  since  the  very  day  that  mamma  v/as  taken 
ill,  sprang  joyously  at  papa,  leaped  upon  him,  whined,  and 
licked  his  hands  ;  but  he  pushed  her  aside,  and  went  into  the 
drawing-room,  thence  into  the  boudoir,  from  which  a  door 
led  directly  into  the  bedroom.  The  nearer  he  came  to  the 
room,  the  more  evident  became  his  disquiet,  as  was  shown  by 
all  his  movements  :  as  he  entered  the  boudoir,  he  walked  on 
tiptoe,  hardly  drew  his  breath,  and  crossed  himself  before  he 
could  make  up  his  mind  to  grasp  the  handle  of  the  closed 
door.  At  that  moment  Mimi.  dishevelled  and  tear-stained, 
ran  in  from  the  corridor.  ••  Ah.Piotr  Alexandrovitch."  she 
said  in  a  whisper,  with  an  exi)ression  of  genuine  despair,  and 
then,  observing  that  i)apa  Avas  turning  the  handle,  she  added 
almost  inaudildy,  •■  it  is  imi)ossible  to  pass  here;  the  s[)ring 
is  gone." 

Oh,  how  sadly  this  affected  my  childish  imagination,  wliich 
was  attuned  to  sorrow,  with  a  fearful  foreboding  ! 

We  weut   to  the   maids'    room.     In   the   corridor   we   eu- 


98  CIllLBUOOD. 

countered  Akim,  the  little  fool,  who  always  amused  us  with 
his  grimaces  ;  but  at  that  moment  he  not  only  did  not  seem 
laughable  to  me,  but  nothing  struck  me  so  painfully  as  his 
mindless,  iuditferent  face.  In  the  maids'  room  two  maids, 
who  were  sitting  over  their  work,  rose  in  order  to  courtesy  to 
us,  with  such  a  sorrowful  expression  that  I  was  frightened. 
Traversing  Mimi's  room  next,  papa  opened  the  door  of  the 
bedroom,  and  we  entered.  To  the  right  of  the  door  >vere  two 
windows,  hung  with  cloths  ;  at  one  of  them  sat  Natalya 
Savischua,  with  her  spectacles  on  her  nose,  knitting  a 
stocking.  She  did  not  kiss  us  as  she  generally  did,  but 
merely  rose,  looked  at  us  through  her  spectacles,  and  the  tears 
poured  down  her  face  in  streams.  I  did  not  like  it  at  all  to__ 
have  people  begin  to  cry  as  soon  as  they  looked  at  us,  when 
they  had  been  quite  calm  before. 

At  the  left  of  the  door  stood  a  screen,  and  behind  the  screen 
the  bed,  a  little  table,  a  little  cabinet  spread  with  medicines, 
and  the  big  arm-chair  in  which  dozed  the  doctor  ;  beside  the 
bed  stood  a  youug,  extremely  fair,  and  remarkably  pretty 
girl,  in  a  white  morning  dress,  who,  with  her  sleeves  turned 
back,  was  applying  ice  to  mamma's  head,  which  I  could  not 
see  at  that  moment.  This  girl  was  la  belle  Fhimande.  of 
whom  mamma  had  written,  and  who,  later  on,  played  such  an 
important  role  in  the  life  of  the  whole  farail}'.  As  soon  as 
we  entered,  she  removed  one  hand  from  mamma's  head,  and 
arranged  the  folds  on  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  then  said  in  a 
whisper,  "  She  is  unconscious." 

I  was  very  wretched  at  that  moment,  but  I  involuntarily 
noted  all  these  trifles.  It  was  nearly  dark  in  the  room,  it  was 
hot,  and  there  was  a  mingled  odor  of  mint,  cologne-water, 
chamomile,  and  Hoffmann's  drops.  This  odor  impressed  me 
to  such  a  degree  that  when  I  siuell  it,  or  when  I  even  recall 
it,  fancy  immediately  bears  me  back  to  that  dark,  stifling 
chamber,  and  reproduces  every  detail,  even  the  most  minute, 
of  that  terrible  moment. 

Mamma's  eyes  were  open,  but  she  saw  nothing.'  Oh.  I 
shall  never  forget  that  dreadful  look  !  It  expressed  so  much 
suffering. 

They  led  us  away. 

ЛУЬеп  I  afterwards  asked  Xatalya  Savischna  about 
mamma's  last  moments,  this  is  what  she  told  me  : 

'•'After  you  were  taken  away,  my  dear  one  was  restless 
.  for  a  long  time  as  though  something  oppressed  her,  then  she 


CniLDHOOD.  99 

dropped  her  head  on  her  pillow,  and  dozed  as  quietl}'  and 
peacefully  as  an  angel  from  heaven.  I  only  went  out  to  see 
why  they  did  not  bring  her  drinks.  AVheu  I  returned  my 
darling  was  throwing  herself  all  about,  and  beckoning  your 
papa  to  her ;  he  bent  over  her,  and  it  was  evident  that  he 
lacked  the  power  to  sa}'  what  he  wished  to  ;  she  could  only 
open  her  lips,  and  begin  to  groan,  '  My  God  !  Lord  !  The 
children,  the  children  !  '  I  wanted  to  run  and  fetch  you,  but 
Ivan  Vasilitch  stopped  me  and  said,  'It  луШ  excite  her  more, 
it  is  better  not.'  After  that  she  only  raised  her  hand  and 
dropped  it  again.  What  she  meant  by  that,  God  only  knows. 
I  think  that  she  was  blessing  you  in  your  absence,  and  it  was 
plain  that  the  Lord  did  not  grant  her  to  see  her  little  children 
before  the  end.  Then  my  little  dove  raised  herself,  made 
this  motion  with  her  hand,  and  all  at  once  she  spoke  in  a  voice 
which  I  cannot  bear  to  think  of,  '  Mother  of  God,  do  not 
desert  them  ! '  Then  the  pain  attained  her  heart ;  it  was  evi- 
dent from  her  eyes  that  the  poor  woman  was  sutfering 
toitures  ;  she  fell  back  on  the  pillows,  caught  the  bed-clothes 
in  her  teeth,  and  her  tears  flowed,  my  dear." 

"  Well,  and  then?  "  I  asked. 

Natalya  Savischna  said  no  more  ;  she  turned  away  and 
wept  bitterl}'. 

Mamma  died  in  terrible  agony. 


100  CUILDIIOOD. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

SORROW. 

Late  in  the  evening  of  the  following  clay  I  wanted  to  see 
her  once  more.  1  overcame  the  involuntary  feeling  of  teiTor, 
opened  the  door  gently,  and  entered  the  hall  on  tiptoe. 

In  the  middle  of  the  room,  upon  a  table,  stood  the  coffin, 
and  around  it  stood  lighted  candles  in  tall  silver  candlesticks. 
In  a  distant  corner  sat  the  dyaehok,^  reading  the  Pbalter  in  a 
low,  monotonous  voice. 

I  itaused  at  the  door,  and  gazed  ;  but  my  eyes  were  so  swol- 
len with  weeping,  and  my  nerves  were  so  unstrung,  that  I  could 
distinguish  nothing.  Every  thing  ran  together  in  a  strange 
fashion,  —  lights,  brocade,  velvet,  the  great  candelabra,  tli(! 
rose-colored  pillow  bordered  with  lace,  the  frontlet,-  the  cap 
with  ribbons,  and  the  transparent  light  of  the  wax  candles. 
1  climbed  upon  a  chair  in  order  to  see  her  face,  but  in  the 
place  where  it  was  the  same  pale-yellowish  transparent  object 
presented  itself  to  me.  I  could  not  believe  that  that  was  her 
face.  I  began  to  examine  it  attentively,  and  little  by  little  I 
began  to  recognize  the  dear  familiar  features.  I  shivered 
Vi'itli  terror  when  I  had  convinced  myself  that  it  was  she  ;  br.t 
why  were  the  closed  ез^ез  so  sunken?  Why  that  dreadful 
pallor,  and  the  blackish  spot  lieneath  the  skin  on  one  cheek? 
Why  was  the  expression  of  the  whole  face  so  stern  and  cold.'' 
Why  were  the  lii)s  so  pale,  and  their  outline  so  л-егу  b-.-au- 
tifui,  so  majestic,  and  so  expressive  of  an  unearthly  calm 
that  a  cold  shudder  I'an  down  my  back  and  through  my  hair 
when  I  looked  upon  it? 

1  gazed,  and  felt  that  some  incomprehensible,  irresistible 
power  was  drawing  my  cj^es  to  that  lifeless  face.  I  did  not 
take  my  eyes  from  it,  and  imagination  sketched  me  a  picture 

'  Clerk-ecclesiastical. 

2  'I'he  ri/i'iilc/ilA-  i i  iiiacle  of  saUii  or  paper,  with  pictures  of  {'hvist,  ЛГа'у,  aiij  St. 
Joba,  ami  laid  upou  the  blow  of  the  corpse,  iii  the  Russian  Church.  —  Tii. 


CHILDHOOD.  101 

of  blooming  life  rnd  liappiness.  I  forgot  tliat  the  dead  body 
which  lay  before  me,  and  upon  which  1  stnpidly  gazed,  as 
upon  an  object  which  had  nothing  iu  common  with  me,  was 
she.  I  fancied  her  now  in  one,  now  in  another  situation  — 
alive,  merry,  smiling.  Then  all  at  once  some  feature  in  the 
pale  face  upon  which  my  eyes  rested  struck  me.  I  recalled 
the  terrible  realit}',  shuddered,  but  did  not  cease  my  gaze. 
And  again  visions  usurped  the  place  of  reality,  and  again  the 
consciousness  of  the  reality  shattered  my  visions.  At  length 
imagination  grew  weary,  it  ceased  to  deceive  me  ;  the  con- 
sciousness of  reality  also  vanished,  and  I  lost  rr.y  senses.  I 
do  not  know  how  long  I  remained  in  this  state,  I  do  not 
know  in  what  it  consisted  ;  I  only  know,  that,  for  a  time,  I 
lost  consciousness  of  my  existence,  and  expei'ieneed  an  ex- 
alted, indescribably  pleasant  and  sorrowful  delight. 

Perliaps,  in  flying  hence  to  a  better  world,  her  beautiful 
soul  gazed  sadly  back  upon  that  in  which  she  left  us  ;  she 
perceived  my  grief,  took  pity  upon  it,  and  descended  to  earth 
on  the  pinions  of  love,  with  a  heavenly  smile  of  compassion, 
iu  order  to  comfort  and  bless  me. 

The  door  creaked,  a  dyachok  entered  the  room  to  relieve 
the  other.  This  noise  roused  me ;  and  the  first  thought 
which  occurred  to  me  was  that  since  1  was  not  crying,  and 
was  standing  on  a  chair,  in  an  attitude  which  had  nothing 
touching  about  it,  the  dyaclioic  might  take  me  for  an  unft'cl- 
ing  boy,  who  had  climbed  on  the  chair  out  of  pity  or  curios- 
ity.    I  crossed  myself,  made  a  reverence,  and  began  to  cry. 

As  I  now  recall  my  impressions,  I  find  that  that  moment 
of  self-forgetf uln  ^ss  was  the  only  one  of  genuine  grief.  Be- 
fore and  after  f  le  burial,  1  never  ceased  to  weej),  and  was 
sad  ;  l)ut  it  puts  me  to  shame  to  recall  that  sadness,  because 
a  feeling  of  self-love  was  always  mingled  with  it ;  at  one  time 
a  desire  to  show  that  I  was  more  sorr}'  than  anyI)ody  else  ; 
again,  solicitude  as  to  the  impression  which  I  was  producing 
u[)on  others  ;  at  another  time,  an  aimless  curiosity  wliich 
caused  me  to  make  observations  upon  Mimi's  ca})  and  the 
faces  of  those  present.  I  despised  myself,  because  the  feel- 
ing I  experienced  was  not  exclusively  one  of  sorrow,  and  I 
tried  to  conceal  all  others  ;  for  this  reason  my  regret  was 
insincere  and  unnatural.  Moreover,  1  experienced  a  sort  of 
pleasure  in  knowing  that  I  was  unha[^py.  t  1  tried  to  arouse 
my  consciousness  of  unha[)|)iness  ;  and  tliis  egotistical  feel- 
ing, mont  tliau  all  tlie  rest,  stilled  genuini'  grief  within  me. 


102  стъвпоов. 

After  passing  the  night  in  a  deep  and  quiet  sleep,  as  is 
always  the  ease  after  great  sorrow,  I  awoke  with  my  tears 
dried  and  m}'  nerves  calm.  At  ten  o'clock  we  were  sum- 
moned to  the  mass  for  the  dead,  which  was  celebrated  Ijefore 
the  body  was  taken  away.  The  room  was  filled  with  house- 
servants  and  peasants,  who  came  in  tears  to  take  leave  of 
their  mistress.  During  the  service  I  cried  in  proper  fashion, 
crossed  myself,  and  made  reverences  to  the  earth  ;  but  1  did 
not  pray  in  spirit,  and  was  tolerabh'  cold-blooded.  I  was 
worrying  because  my  new  half-coat,  which  they  had  put  on 
me,  hurt  me  very  much  under  the  arms.  I  meditated  how 
not  to  spot  the  knees  of  my  trousers  too  much  ;  and  1  took 
observations,  on  the  sly,  of  all  those  who  were  present.  My 
father  stood  at  the  head  of  the  coffin.  He  was  as  pale  as  his 
handkerchief,  and  restrained  his  tears  with  evident  difficulty. 
His  tall  figure  in  its  black  coat,  his  pale,  expressive  face,  his 
movements,  graceful  and  assured  as  ever,  when  he  crossed 
himself,  bowed,  touching  the  ground  with  his  hand,  took  the 
candle  from  the  hand  of  the  priest,  or  approached  the  coffin, 
were  extremely  effective.  But,  I  do  not  know  why,  the  fact 
that  tie  could  show  himself  off  so  effectively  at  such  a  moment 
was  precisely  what  did  not  please  me.  Mimi  stood  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  appeareil  hardh'  able  to  keep  her  feet. 
Her  dress  was  crumpled  and  flecked  with  down  ;  her  cap  was 
pushed  on  one  side  ;  her  swollen  eyes  were  red  ;  her  head 
shook.  She  never  ceased  to  sob  in  a  voice  that  rent  the 
soul,  and  she  incessantly  covered  her  face  with  her  hands 
and  her  handkerchief.  It  seemed  to  me  that  she  did  this  iu 
order  to  hide  her  countenance  from  the  spectators,  and  to 
rest  for  a  moment  after  her  feigned  sobs.  I  remembered 
how  she  had  told  papa,  the  day  before,  that  mamma's  death 
was  such  a  terrible  shock  to  her  that  she  had  no  hope  of  liv- 
ing through  it ;  that  it  deprived  her  of  every  thing  ;  that  that 
angel  (as  she  called  mamma)  had  not  forgotten  her  before 
her  death,  and  had  expressed  a  desire  to  secure  her  future 
and  Katenka's  forever  from  care.  She  shed  bitter  tears  as 
she  said  this,  and  perhaps  her  grief  was  genuine.  l)ut  it  was 
not  pure  and  exclusive.  Liubotchka.  in  her  black  frock,  with 
mourning  trimmings,  was  all  bathed  iu  tears,  and  dropped 
her  little  head,  glancing  rarely  at  the  coffin,  and  her  face 
expressed  only  childish  terror.  Katenka  stood  beside  her 
mother,  and,  in  spite  of  the  long  face  she  had  put  on.  was  as 
rosy  as  ever.     Yolodya's  frank  nature  was  frank  even  in  his 


CBILDnOOD.  103 

grief.     He  stood  at  times  with  his   thoughtful,  immovable 
glance  fixed  ou  some  object ;  theu  his  moutli  began  sudden- 
ly to  twitch,  and  he  hastily'  crossed  himself,  and  bowed  in  rev- 
erence.    All  the  strangers  who  were  present  at  the  funeral 
were  intolerable  to  me.     The  phrases  of  consolation  which 
/they  uttered  to  father,  that  she  would  be  better  off  there,  thaJt  / 
/  she  was  not  for  this  world,  aroused  a  kind  of  anger  in  me.         i 
I       AVhat  right  had  they  to  speak  of  her  and  mourn  for  her? 
1    Some  of  them  in  speaking  of  us  called  us  orplians.     As  if 
'  we  did  not  know  without  their  assistance  that  children  who 
have   no   mother   are    called   by    that  name  Г    It  evidently 
pleased  them  to  be  the  first  to  bestow  it  upon  us,  just  as 
the}^  generally  make  haste  to  call  a  young  girl  who  has  just  . 
been  married,  Madame  for  the  first  time.  ■ 

In  the  far  corner  of  the  hall,  almost  concealed  by  the 
open  door  of  the  pantry,  knelt  a  bowed  and  gra3'-haired 
woman.  AVith  clasped  hands,  and  eyes  raised  to  Ьеал'еп,  she 
neither  wept  nor  prayed.  Her  soul  aspired  to  God,  and  she 
besought  him  to  let  her  join  the  one  whom  she  loved  more 
than  all  on  earth,  and  she  confidently  hoped  that  it  would 
be  soon. 

''There  is  one  who  loved  her  trulj' !  "  thought  I,  and  I 
was  ashamed  of  myself. 

The  mass  came  to  an  end  ;  the  face  of  the  dead  woman 
was  uncovered,  and  all  present,  with  the  exception  of  our- 
selves, approached  the  coffin  one  by  one  and  kissed  it. 

One  of  the  last  to  draw  near  and  take  leave  of  her  was  a 
peasant  woman,  leading  a  beautiful  five-year-old  girl,  whom 
she  had  brought  hither  God  only  knows  wh}'.  At  that 
moment,  I  unexpectedly  dropped  m}^  moist  handkerchief, 
and  stooped  to  pick  it  up.  But  I  had  no  sooner  bent  over, 
than  a  frightful  piercing  shriek  startled  me  :  it  was  so  full 
of  terror  that  if  I  live  a  hundred  j'ears  I  shall  never  forget 
it,  and  when  I  recall  it  a  cold  chill  always  runs  all  over 
my  body.  I  raised  my  head  :  on  a  tabouret  beside  the  coffin, 
stood  the  same  peasant  woman,  holding  in  her  arms  with 
difficulty  the  little  girl,  who  with  her  tiny  hands  thrust  out 
before  her,  her  frightened  little  face  turned  aside,  and  her 
staring  eyes  fastened  upon  the  face  of  the  corpse,  was 
shrieking  in  a  wild  and  dreadful  voice.  I  uttered  a  shriek 
in  a  tone  which  I  think  must  have  been  even  moi'e  terrible 
then  the  one  which  had  startled  me,  and  ran  out  of  the 
room. 


104  CHILDHOOD. 

It  was  onl}^  at  that  moment  that  I  understood  whence 
came  that  strong,  heavy  odor,  which,  mingling  with  the  odor 
of  the  incense,  filled  the  room  ;  and  the  thought  that  that 
face,  лvhich  a  few  days  before  had  been  full  of  beauty  and 
tenderness,  that  face  which  I  loved  more  than  any  thing  in 
the  world,  could  excite  terror,  seemed  for  the  first  time  to 
reveal  to  me  the  bitter  truth,  and  filled  my  soul  with  despair. 


О 


K^lllljUllUUU. 


ш 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

THE    LAST    SAD    MEMORIES. 

Mamma  was  dead,  but  our  life  pursued  its  iisiial  course. 
We  went  to  bed  and  got  up  at  the  same  hours,  and  in  tlie 
same  rooms  ;  morning  and  evening  tea,  dinner,  supper,  all 
took  place  at  the  usual  time  ;  tlie  tables  and  chairs  stood  in 
the  same  places  ;  nothing  was  changed  in  the  house  or  in  our 
manner  of  life,  only  —  she  was  no  more. 

It  seemed  to  me,  that,  after  such  unhappiness,  all  must 
change :  our  ordinary  manner  of  life  appeared  to  me  au 
insult  to  her  memory,  and  recalled  her  absence  too  vividly. 

After  dinner,  on  the  evening  before  the  funeral,  I  wanted 
to  go  to  sleep  ;  and  I  went  to  Natalj^a  Savischna's  room, 
intending  to  install  myself  in  her  bed,  on  the  soft  feather- 
bed, aud  beneath  the  warm  wadded  coverlet.  ЛУЬеп  I  en- 
tered, Natalya  Savischna  was  lying  on  her  bed,  and  was 
probably  asleep  ;  hearing  the  noise  of  my  footsteps,  she  rose 
up,  flung  aside  the  woollen  cloth  which  protected  her  head 
from  the  flies,  and,  adjusting  her  cap,  seated  herself  on  the 
edge  of  the  bed. 

'^  What  is  it?  They  have  sent  you  to  get  some  rest,  my 
dear?    Lie  down." 

'^ЛVllat  is  the  matter  with  you,  Natalya  Savischna?"  I 
said,  holding  her  hand.  "  That  is  not  it  at  all.  I  just  came, 
and  you  are  weary  yourself;  you  had  better  lie  down." 

'•  No,  batiuschka,  I  have  slept  enough,"  she  said  (I  knew 
that  she  had  not  slept  for  three  days,  for  grief.)  "And 
besides,  I  am  not  sleepy  now,"  she  added  with  a  deep  sigh. 

I  wanted  to  discuss  our  misfortune  with  Natalya  Savischna. 
I  knew  her  honesty  and  love,  and  it  would  have  been  a 
comfort  to  me  to  луеер  witli  her. 

"  Natalya  Savischna,"  I  said,  seating  myself  on  the  bed, 
after  a  brief  silence,   "  did  you  ex[)ect  this?  " 

The  old  woman  looked  at  me  iu  amazement  and  curiosity, 


106  CniLDnOOD. 

probably  because  she  did  not  understand  why  I  asked  her 
that. 

"  Who  could  expect  this?  "  I  repeated. 

"  Ah,  my  dear,"  said  she,  casting  a  glance  of  the  tender- 
est  sympathy  upon  me,  "it  was  not  to  be  expected,  and  I 
cannot  believe  it  even  now.  Such  an  old  woman  as  I  ought 
to  have  laid  her  old  bones  in  the  grave  long  ago.  The  old 
master.  Prince  Nikolai  Mikhailovitch,  your  grandfather  (may 
his  memor}^  be  eternal!)  had  two  brothers,  and  a  sister 
Annuchka ;  and  I  have  buried  them  all,  and  they  were  all 
younger  than  I  am,  batiusehka  ;  and  now,  for  my  sins  evi- 
dentl}',  it  is  my  fate  to  outlive  her.  His  holy  will  be  done  ! 
He  took  her  because  she  was  worthy,  and  He  wants  good 
people  there." 

This  simple  thought  impressed  me  as  a  comfort;  and  I 
moved  nearer  Natalya  Savischna.  She  folded  her  hands  on 
her  bosom,  and  looked  upwards;  her  sunken,  tearful  e_yes 
expressed  great  but  quiet  suffering.  She  cherished  a  firm 
hope  that  God  would  not  long  part  her  from  her  u[)on  whom 
she  had  for  so  many  years  concentrated  all  the  power  of  her 
love. 

"  Yes,  my  dear,  it  does  not  seem  long  since  I  was  her 
nurse,  and  dressed  her,  and  she  called  me  Naselia.  She 
would  run  to  me,  seize  me  with  her  plump  little  hands,  and 
begin  to  kiss  me,  and  to  say : 

^'  '  My  Naschjk,  my  beauty,  my  little  turkey  !  ' 

"And  I  would  say  in  jest : 

"  '  It's  not  true,  matuschka,  you  do  not  1ол'е  me  ;  wait  until 
you  grow  up,  and  marry,  and  forget  your  Nascha.'  She 
would  begin  to  reflect.  *■  No,'  she  would  say,  'it  will  be 
better  not  to  maiTy,  if  I  cannot  take  Nascha  with  me  ;  I 
will  never  desert  Nascha.'  And  now  she  has  deserted  me, 
and  has  not  waited  for  me.  And  she  loved  me,  the  dear 
dead  woman  !  And,  in  truth,  who  was  there  that  she  did  not 
love?  Yes,  batiusehka,  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  forget 
З'оиг  mamma.  She  was  not  a  human  being,  but  an  an^el 
from  heaven.  When  her  soul  reaches  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  it  will  love  you  there,  and  rejoice  over  3'ou." 

"  Why  do  you  say,  when  she  reaches  the  kingdom  of 
heaven,  Natalya  Savischna?  "  1  asked.  "  Why,  1  think  she 
is  there  now." 

"  No.  batiusehka."  said  Natalya  Savischna,  loweriu",-  her 
voice,  and  biUiug  closer  to  uie  on  tiie  bed:  "  her  t^ovA  is  hare 


CniLDIIOOD.  107 

now,"  and  she  pointed  upwards.  She  spoke  almost  in  a 
whisper,  and  with  so  much  feeling  and  conviction  that  I 
invohintaril}'  raised  my  eyes,  and  inspected  the  cornice  in 
search  of  something.  "  Before  the  soul  of  the  just  goes  to 
paradise,  it  undergoes  fort}'  clianges,  my  dear,  and  it  can 
stay  in  its  home  for  forty  days." 

iSlie  tallved  long  in  this  strain,  and  with  as  much  simplicity 
and  faith  as  though  she  were  relating  the  most  every-day  oc- 
currences, which  she  had  witnessed  herself,  and  on  tlie  score 
of  which  it  would  иел'ег  enter  any  one's  head  to  entertain 
the  sliglitcst  donl)t.  I  held  nw  breath  as  I  listened  to  her ; 
and  although  I  did  not  understand  very  well  what  she  said,  I 
believed  her  entirely. 

"Yes,  batiuschka,  she  is  here  now;  she  is  looking  at  us; 
perhnps  she  hears  what  we  are  saying,"  said  Natalya  8a- 
vischna,  in  conclusion. 

She  bent  her  head,  and  became  silent.  She  wanted  a 
handkerchief  to  wipe  her  falling  tears  ;  she  rose,  looked  me 
straight  in  the  face,  and  said,  in  a  voice  which  treml)led  with 
emotion : 

"The  Lord  has  brought  me  many  degrees  nearer  to  him 
through  this.  AVhat  is  left  for  me  here  now  ?  "Whom  have 
I  to  live  for?     Whom  Ьал^е  I  to  love?  " 

"■Don't  3"ou  love  us?"  I  said  reproachfully,  hardly  re- 
straining my  tears. 

"God  knoAvs  how  I  love  you,  my  darlings  ;  but  IJiave 
never  loved  any  one  as  I  loved  her,  and  1  never  can  love 
any  one  in  that  way." 

She  could  say  no  more,  but  turned  away,  and  sobbed 
loudly. 

I  no  longer  thought  of  sleeping :  we  sat  opposite  each 
other  in  silence,  and  wept. 

Foka  entered  the  room ;  perceiving  our  condition,  and 
probably  not  wishing  to  disturb  us,  he  glanced  at  us  timidly 
and  in  silence,  and  paused  at  the  door. 

"  What  do  3-0U  Avant,  Fokaseha?  "  asked  Xatal^-a  Savisch- 
na,  wiping  her  e^'es. 

",V  pound  and  a  half  of  raisins,  four  pounds  of  sugar,  and 
three  pounds  of  rice,  for  the  kiitija."  ^ 

"  Lnmediatel}^  immediately,  batiuschka,"  said  Natalya 
Savisclma,  taking  a  hasty  pinch  of  snuff;  and  she  went  to 
her  cupboaid  V\-ith  brisk  steps.     The  last  traces  of  the  grief 

1  л  i!i.<h  which  Ь  curried  to  the  chuich  iit  the  mass  in  memory  of  ;i  dcuj  i)ersou. 


108  CTIILDTIOOT). 

called  forth  hv  our  convei'sation  had  vanished  when  she  set 
alK)Ui  her  duty,  which  she  considered  as  extremely  im- 
portant. 

"  What  are  the  four  pounds  for?"  she  grumbled,  as  she 
took  out  the  sugar,  and  weighed  it  in  the  scales.  ''  Three  and 
fi  half  will  be  enough,"  and  she  took  several  bits  from  the 
scales.  "  Who  ever  heard  the  like?  1  gave  out  eight  pounds 
of  rice  yesterday,  and  now  more  is  demanded.  You  will 
have  it  so,  Foka  Demiditch,  but  I  won't  let  you  have  tli3 
rice.  That  Vanka  is  glad  because  the  house  is  upside  down  : 
he  thinks  no  one  will  notice.  No,  1  won't  shut  my  eyes  to 
attempts  on  my  master's  goods.  Now,  was  such  a  thing 
ever  seen,  as  eight  pounds?  " 

"  What  is  to  be  done?     He  says  that  it's  all  gone." 

"  AVell,  there,  take  it,  there  !     Let  him  have  it !  " 

I  was  surprised  at  this  transition  from  the  affecting  senti- 
ment with  which  she  had  talked  with  me,  to  this  grumbling 
and  petty^calculati(jn.  On  reflecting  upon  the  subject  aftei- 
wards,  I  saw,  that,  in  spite  of  what  was  going  on  in  her  soul, 
she  retained  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  busy  herself  with 
лег  affairs,  and  the  force  of  habit  drew  her  to  her  customary 
employments.  Sorrow  acted  so  powcrfull}'  upon  her,  that 
she  did  not  find  it  necessary  to  dissemble,  and  she  was  able 
to  occupy  herself  with  extraneous  oltjects  :  she  would  not 
even  have  been  able  to  understand  how  such  a  thought  could 
occi^  to  any  one. 

Vanity  is  a  feeling  which  is  utterly  incompatible  with  gen- 
uine grief  ;  and,  at  the  same  time,  this  feeling  is  so  strongly 
interwoven  with  the  nature  of  many,  that  ел^еп  the  deepest 
луое  rarely  expels  it.  Vanity  exhibits  itself  in  sorrow  by  the 
desire  to  appear  sad,  or  unhappy,  or  firm  ;  and  these  low 
desires,  Avhich  we  do  not  acknowledge,  but  which  rarely 
forsake  us  even  in  the  deepest  trouble,  deprive  it  of  force, 
dignity,  and  truth.  But  Natalya  Savischna  was  so  deeply 
wounded  by  her  unhappiness,  that  not  a  single  desire  lingered 
in  her  soul,  and  she  only  lived  from  habit. 

After  2,iving  Foka  the  provisions  he  had  asked  for,  and 
reminding  him  of  the  pas'ty  which  must  be  [jrcpared  f-,;  the 
entertainment  of  the  clergy,  she  dismissed  him,  took  her 
stocking,  and  seated  herself  beside  me  again. 

The  conversation  turned  again  upon  the  same  subject  as 
before  ;  and  again  we  wept,  and  again  dried  our  eyes. 

These  conversations  with  Natalya  Savischna  were  repeated 


CHILDHOOD.  109 

ever}'  (lay  ;  her  quiet  tears  and  calm,  devout  words  brought 
me  comfort  and  consolation. 

But  we  were  soon  parted.  Three  daj^s  after  the  funeral, 
the  whole  household  removed  to  Moscow,  and  1  was  fated 
never  to  see  her  more. 

Grandmother  only  received  the  terril)le  news  on  our  arrival, 
and  her  grief  was  exti-aordinai-y.  We  were  not  admitted  to 
her  i)resence,  because  she  lay  unconscious  for  a  whole  week, 
and  the  doctor  feared  for  her  life,  the  more  so  as  she  not 
only  would  not  take  any  medicine,  but  would  speak  to  no 
one,  did  not  sleep,  and  took  no  nourishment.  Sometimes,  as 
she  sat  alone  in  her  chamber,  in  her  arm-chair,  she  suddenly 
broke  into  a  laugh,  then  began  to  sob,  but  shed  no  tears  ;  then 
she  was  seized  with  convulsions,  and  uttered  frightful  and 
incoherent  words  in  a  voice  of  madness.  She  felt  the  need  of 
blaming  some  one  for  her  misery  ;  and  she  said  terrible  things, 
spoke  to  some  invisible  person  with  unusual  energy,  sprang 
from  her  chair,  paced  the  room  in  long  and  rapid  strides,  and 
then  fell  senseless. 

I  entered  her  room  on  one  occasion.  She  was  sitting  in  her 
arm-chair,  as  usual,  and  was  calm  to  all  appearances,  but 
her  glance  startled  me.  Her  eyes  were  very  wide  open,  but 
their  gaze  was  wavering  and  stupid  ;  she  looked  straight  at  me, 
but  she  could  not  have  seen  me.  Her  lips  began  a  slow  smile, 
and  she  spoke  in  a  voice  of  touching  gentleness:  "Come 
here,  my  dear  ;  come  here,  my  angel."  1  thought  that  shdw'as 
addressing  me,  and  approached  nearer ;  but  she  did  not  look 
at  me.  "Ah,  if  you  only  knew,  my  love,  what  torments  I 
have  suffered,  and  how  glad  I  am  that  you  have  come!" 
Then  I  understood  that  she  fancied  she  saw  mamma,  and 
halted.  "The}'  told  me  you  were  dead,"  she  went  on,  with 
a  frown.  "What  nonsense!  Could  you  die  before  me?" 
and  she  gave  a  dreadful  h\steric  laugh. 

Only  people  who  are  capable  of  loving  strongl}'  can  also 
suft'er  great  sorrow  ;   but  this  same  necessity  of  loving  serves 
to  counteract  their  grief,  and  heals  them.     For  this  reason  the 
moral  nature  of  man  is  more  active  than  the  physical     Grie 
lever  kills. 

After  the  lapse  of  a  week,  grandmamma  could  weep,  and 
her  condition  improA^ed.  Her  first  thought,  when  she  came 
to  herself,  was  of  us  ;  and  her  love  for  us  increased.  We 
never  left  her  arm-chair  ;  she  cried  softly,,  spoke  of  mamma, 
and  tenderly  caressed  us. 


/ 


110  CHILDHOOD. 

It  could  not  enter  the  mind  of  any  one  who  looked  upou 
grandmamma's  grief,  that  she  was  exaggerating  it,  and  the 
expressions  of  that  grief  were  forcil^le  and  touching ;  but  I 
do  not  know  why  I  sympathized  more  with  Natalya  Savischna, 
and  to  this  day  1  am  convinced  that  no  one  loved  and 
mourned  mamma  so  purely  and  so  sincerely  as  that  sini[)lo, 
affectionate  creature. 

The  happy  da^'s  of  childhood  ended  for  me  with  mamma's 
death,  and  a  new  epoch  began,  —  the  e[)och  of  boyhood  ;  but 
as  my  recollections  of  Natalya  Savischna,  Avhom  I  never  saw 
v4«again,  and  who  exercised  such  a  powerful  and  beneficent  in- 
,  flnence  over  my  career  and  the  development  of  my  sensibility, 
belong  to  the  first  epoch,  1  will  say  a  few  words  more  about 
her  and  her  death. 

After  our  departure,  as  we  were  afterwards  informed,  she 
remained  in  the  village,  and  found  the  time  hang  heavy  on 
her  hands  from  lack  of  occupation.  Although  all  the  clothes- 
presses  were  still  in  her  hands,  and  she  never  ceased  to  turn 
over  their  contents,  alter  the  arrangement,  hang  things  up,  and 
pack  them  away  again,  yet  she  missed  the  noise  and  turmoil 
of  a  country  house  which  is  inhabited  by  its  owners,  to  which 
she  had  been  accustomed  from  her  childhood.  Grief,  the 
change  in  her  manner  of  life,  the  absence  of  responsibilities, 
speedily  developed  an  old  complaiut  to  which  she  had  long 
been  inclined.  Just  a  year  after  mamma's  death,  dropsy 
made  its  appearance,  and  she  took  to  her  bed. 

It  was  hard,  I  think,  for  Natalya  Savischna  to  live  alone, 
and  still  harder  for  her  to  die  alone,  in  the  great  empty  house 
at  Petrovskoe,  without  relatives  or  friends.  Eyery  one  in  tjie 
house  lo_Yed..o,n_dj^Y^§V-^d-^^talya  Savischna ;  birtsheenter- 
tained  no  friendship  with  an}'  one,  and  was  proud  of  it.  She 
considered  that  in  her  position  of  a  housekeeper  who  enjoyed 
the  confidence  of  her  master,  and  had  in  her  charge  so  many 
chests  filled  with  all  sorts  of  property,  a  friendship  with  any 
one  would  infallibly  lead  to  paiiiality  and  a  criminal  conde- 
scension. For  that  reason,  or,  possibl}',  because  she  had 
nothing  in  common  with  the  other  servants,  she  held  herself 
aloof  from  all,  and  said  that  she  had  neither  gossips  nor 
cronies  in  the  house,  and  she  would  not  countenance  any 
attacks  upon  her  master's  property. 

She  sought  and  found  consolation  by  confiding  lier  feeling 
to  God  in  rervent  praver  :  but  sometnues.  m  those  moments  of 
wenivuess  to  which  we  are  all  subiect^  when  mau  finds  his 


CHILDnOOD. 

best_comfort.in  the  tears  and  sympathy  of  a  living  being, 
put  her  little  dog  on  her  bed  (it  licked  her  hand,  and  fixed  ii^. 
yellow  eyes  upon  her),  talked  to  it,  and  wept  softly  as  she 
petted  it.  When  the  poodle  bega,n  to  howl  piteously,  she 
endeavored  to  quiet  it,  and  said,  "Stop;  I  know,  without 
your  telling  me,  that  I  shall  die  soon." 

A  month  before  her  death,  she  took  from  her  chest  some 
white  calico,  white  muslia,  and  pink  ribbons  ;  with  the  as- 
sistance of  her  maid  she  made  herself  a  white  dress  and  a 
cap,  and  arranged  every  thing  which  was  requisite  for  her 
funeral,  down  to  the  most  minute  detail.  She  also  sorted 
over  the  chests  belonging  to  her  master,  and  transferred  them 
with  the  greatest  precision,  in  writing,  to  the  overseer.  There 
remained  to  her  two  silk  dresses,  an  old  shawl  which  grand- 
mamma had  given  her  at  some  time  or  other,  and  grandfather's 
militar}'  uniform  which  had  also  been  given  to  her  for  her 
own.  Thanks  to  her  care,  the  embroidery  and  galloon  on 
the  uniform  were  perfectly  fresh,  and  the  cloth  had  not  been 
touched  by  the  moths. 

Before  her  death,  she  expressed  a  v^'isb.  tliat  one  of  these 
dresses,  the  pink  one,  should  be  given  to  Volodya  for  a 
dressing-gown  or  jacket,  and  tlie  other,  the  brown  checked 
one,  to  me  for  the  same  purpose,  and  the  shawl  to  Liu- 
botchka.  The  uniform  she  bequeathed  to  whichever  of  us 
should  first  l)ecome  an  otiicer.  All  the  rest  of  her  proper- 
ty, and  her  money,  with  the  exception  of  fort}^  ruliles  which 
she  laid  aside  for  her  funeral  and  masses,  she  left  to  her 
brother.  Her  brother,  who  had  received  his  freedom  long 
before,  resided  in  some  distant  government,  and  led  a  л'егу 
dissipated  life  ;  hence  she  had  had  no  intercourse  with  him 
during  her  lifetime. 

When  Natalya  Savischna's  brother  presented  himself  to 
receive  his  inheritance,  and  the  deceased's  entire  projKnty 
proved  to  consist  of  twenty-five  rubles  in  bills,  he  w^uld  not  ^ 
believe  it,  and  said  that  it  could  not  be  that  the  old  woman, 
wiio  had  lived  for  sixty  years  in  a  wealthy  family,  and  had 
had  every  thing  in  her  hands,  had  lived  in  a  miserly  way  all 
her  life,  and  had  fretted  over  every  scra[),  hail  left  nothing. 
But, this  was  actually  the  case. 

Natalya  Savischna  suffered  for  two  months  from  her  com- 
plaint, and  bore  her  pain  Avith  a  truly  Christian  patience  ; 
she  did  not  grumble  or  complain,  but  mereh'  prayed  inces- 
santly, as  was  her  custom.     She  confessed  with  joy,  and  re- 


112  CTIILDIIOOD. 

ceived  the  communion  and  extreme  unction,  an  hour  before 
iier  death. 

She  begged  forgiveness  of  all  the  house-servants  foi'  any 
injuries  which  she  might  have  done  them,  and  besought  her 
priest,  Father  Vasili,  to  say  to  all  of  us,  that  she  did  not 
know  how  to  express  her  thanks  for  all  our  kindness,  and 
prayed  us  to  pardon  her  if  she  had  pained  any  cue  by  her 
stupidity;  "but  I  never  was  a  thief,  and  J  can  say  that  I 
never  cheated  m}'  masters  out  of  a  thread."  This  was  the 
only  quality  in  herself  which  she  valued. 

Having  put  on  the  wrapper  and  cap  which  she  had  pre- 
pared, and  propped  herself  up  on  the  pillows,  she  never 
ceased  until  the  moment  of  death  to  converse  with  the  priest. 
She  reminded  him  that  she  had  not  left  any  one  poor,  gaA'e 
him  ten  rubles,  and  begged  him  to  distribute  it  in  the  par- 
ish. Then  she  crossed  herself,  lay  back,  sighed  for  the  last 
time,  and  uttered  the  name  of  God  in  a  joyous  tone. 

She  quitted  life  without  regret ;  she  did  not  fear  death, 
but  accepted  it  as  a  blessing.  This  is  often  said,  but  how 
prely  is  it  true  !  Natalya  Savischna  could  not  fear  death, 
)ecause  she  died  firm  in  the  faith  and  fulfilling  the  law  of 
4he  Gospels.  Her  whole  life  had  been  pure,  unselfish  love 
and  self-sacrifice. 

What  if  her  creed  might  have  been  more  lofty,  if  her  life 
might  liave  lieen  devoted  to  higher  aims?  is  this  pure  soul 
any  the  less  deserving  of  love  and  admiration  on  that  ac- 
count? 

She  accomplished  the  best  and  grandest  deed  in  this  life : 
she  died  without  regret  or  fear. 

She  was  buried,  in  accordance  with  her  wish,  not  far  from 
the  chapel  which  stood  upon  mamma's  grave.  The  hillock, 
overgrown  with  brambles  and  burdock,  beneath  which  she 
lies,  is  enclosed  within  an  black  iron  paling ;  but  I  never 
forget  to  go  from  the  chapel  to  that  railing,  and  bow  myself 
to  the  earth  in  reverence. 

Sometimes  I  pause  silent,  midway  between  the  chapel  an( 
that  black  fence.  Painful  reminiscences  suddenly  penetrate 
my  soul.  The  thought  comes  to  me  :  Did  Providence  con-'\ 
nect  me  wiih  these  two  beings  merely  in  order  that  I  jnight  \ 
be  made  to  mourn  for  them  forever?  J 


РАЕТ  П. -BOYHOOD. 


А  NOVEL. 


BOYHOOD. 

1 « ■ 

CHAPTER   I. 

A  JOURNEY  WITHOUT  RELAYS 

Two  equipages  were  agaiu  brought  to  the  porch  of  the 
Petrovskoe  house  :  one  was  a  coach  in  which  sat  Mimi, 
Katenka,  Liubotchka,  aud  the  maid,  with  the  clerk  Yakov  on 
tlie  box  ;  the  other  was  a  Iiritchka,  in  wliich  rode  Volodya 
and  I,  and  the  footman  \^asili  wlio  had  recently  been  taken 
from  obrok.^ 

Papa,  who  was  to  follow  us  to  Moscow  in  a  few  days, 
stands  on  the  porch  without  his  hat,  and  makes  the  sign 
of  the  cross  upon  the  window  of  the  coach  and  the  britchka, 

"  Well,  Christ  be  with  you  !  drive  on  !  "  Yakov  and  the 
coachman  (we  are  travelling  in  our  own  carriage)  take  off 
their  hats,  and  cross  themselves.  ''No!  No!  In  God's 
name  !  " 

The  bodies  of  the  carriage  and  britchka  begin  to  jolt 
over  the  uneven  road,  and  the  birches  along  the  great  ave- 
nue fly  past  us  one  by  one.  I  am  not  at  all  sad  ;  my  men- 
tal gaze  is  fixed,  not  upon  what  I  am  leaving,  but  upon  what 
awaits  me.  In  proportion  as  the  objects  connected  with  the 
painful  memories  which  have  filled  ni}'  mind  until  this  mo- 
ment retreat  into  tlie  distance,  these  memories  lose  their 
force,  and  are  speedily  replaced  b}'  a  sense  of  acquaintance- 
ship with  life,  which  is  full  of  force,  freshness,  and  hope. 

Rarely  have  I  spent  days  so  —  1  will  not  say  merrily,  for 

'  л  sum  paid  to  the  proprietor  by  a  serf  in  lieu  of  i)er8oiial  service.  Mauy  serfs 
(if  lioth  sexes  exercised  various  trades  in  the  cities,  and  their  obrok  ofteu  yielded 
their  masters  quite  a  sum. 

115 


116  BOYHOOD. 

I  was  still  rather  conscience-stricken  at  the  idea  of  yielding 
to  merriment  —  but  so  agreeably,  so  pleasantly,  as  the  fonr 
during  which  our  journey  lasted. 

I  had  no  longer  before  my  eyes  the  closed  door  of 
manuna's  room,  which  I  could  not  pass  without  a  shudder; 
nor  the  closed  piano,  which  no  one  approached,  but  whieli 
every  one  regarded  with  a  sort  of  fear ;  nor  the  mourning 
garments  (we  all  had  on  simple  travelling  suits),  nor  any  of 
those  things,  which,  by  recalling  to  me  vividly  my  irrevo- 
cable loss,  made  me  avoid  every  appearance  of  life,  from 
the  fear  of  offending  her  memory  in  some  way.  Here,  on 
the  other  hand,  new  and  picturesque  spots  and  objects  arrest 
and  divert  my  attention,  and  nature  in  its  spring  garb  fixes 
firmly  in  ni}'  mind  the  cheering  sense  of  satisfaction  in  the 
present,  and  bright  hopes  for  the  future. 

Early,  ver}"  early  in  the  morning,  pitiless  Л''asiИ,  who  was 
over-zealous  as  people  always  are  in  new  situations,  pulls  off 
the  coverlet,  and  announces  that  it  was  time  to  set  out,  and 
that  every  thing  is  ready.  Snuggle  and  rage  and  contrive 
as  3'ou  will  to  prolong  even  for  another  quarter  of  an  hour 
the  sweet  morning  slumber,  3'ou  see  by  Vasili's  determined 
face  that  he  is  inexorable,  and  prepared  to  drag  off  the 
coverlet  twenty  times  :  so  you  jump  up,  and  run  out  into 
the  court  to  wash  yourself. 

The  samovar  is  already  boiling  in  the  ante-room,  and 
Mitka  the  out-rider  is  blowing  it  until  he  is  as  red  as  a  crab. 
It  is  damp  and  dark  out  of  doors,  as  tliough  the  steam  were 
rising  from  an  odoriferous  dung-heap  ;  the  sun  illuminates 
the  eastern  sk}'  with  a  bright  cheerful  light,  and  the  straw 
roofs  of  the  ample  sheds  surrounding  the  eourt-yaid,  which 
are  sparkling  with  dew.  lieneath  thorn  our  horses  are  visi- 
ble, hitched  about  the  fodder,  and  the  i)eaceful  stjund  of 
their  mastication  is  audiljle. 

A  shaggy  black  dog  луЬо  has  lain  down  upon  a  diy  heap 
of  manure  before  dawn,  stretches  lazily,  and  betakes  him- 
self to  the  other  side  of  the  yard  at  a  gentle  trot,  wagging 
his  tail  the  while.  The  busy  housewife  opens  the  creaking 
gates,  drives  the  meditative  cows  into  the  street,  where  the 
tramp,  lowing  and  bloating  of  herds  is  already  audible,  and 
exchanges  a  word  with  her  sleepy  neighbor.  Philip,  with 
tlie  sleeves  of  his  shirt  strip))ed  up,  draws  the  bucket  from 
the  deep  well,  all  dripping  with  clear  water,  l)y  means  of  the 
wheel,  and  empties  it  into  an  oakeu  trough,  about  which  wide- 


BOYHOOD.  Ill 

awake  duclcs  are  already  splashing  in  the  pool ;  and  I  gaze 
лvith  pleasure  upon  Philip's  handsome  face  with  its  great 
beard,  and  at  the  thick  sinews  and  muscles  which  are  sharply 
defined  upon  his  bare,  hairy  arms  when  he  makes  any  exer- 
tion. 

Behind  the  screen  where  Mimi  slept  with  the  girls,  and 
ол'вг  Avhich  we  had  conversed  in  the  evening,  a  movement 
was  audible.  Mascha  runs  past  us  repeatedly  with  various 
objects  which  she  endeavors  to  conceal  from  our  curiosit\' 
with  her  dress  ;  and  finally  she  opens  the  door,  and  calls  us 
to  drink  our  tea. 

Vasili.  in  a  lit  of  superfluous  zeal,  runs  into  the  room 
incessantly,  carries  out  first  one  thing,  then  another,  beckons 
to  us,  and  in  every  way  exhoits  Marya  Ivanovna  to  set  out 
as  speedily  as  possible.  The  horses  are  harnessed,  and 
express  their  impatience  by  jingling  their  bells  every  now 
and  then  ;  the  trunks,  chests,  caskets,  and  dressing-cases  are 
again  packed  away,  and  we  take  our  seats.  But  each  time 
we  find  a  mouutain  inside  the  britchka  instead  of  a  seat, 
so  that  it  is  impossible  to  understand  how  all  this  had  been 
arranged  the  day  before,  and  how  we  are  going  to  sit  now. 
One  walnut-wood  tea-cadd}'  with  a  triangular  cover,  in  par- 
ticular, which  is  intrusted  to  us  in  the  britchka,  is  placed 
under  me,  and  enrages  me  extremely.  But  Vasili  says  that 
луЩ  settle  down,  and  I  am  forced  to  believe  him. 

The  sun  has  but  just  risen  above  the  dense  Avhite  clouds 
which  veil  the  east,  and  all  the  country  round  aliout  is  illumi- 
nated with  a  quietly  cheerful  light.  All  is  so  very  beauti- 
ful about  me,  and  I  am  so  tranquil  and  liglit  of  heart.  The 
road  winds  away  in  front  like  a  wide,  unconlined  ril)bon, 
amid  fields  of  dr}"  stubble,  and  herbage  sparkling  with 
dew.  Here  and  there  l)y  .the  roadside  we  come  upon  a 
gloomy  willow,  or  a  young  l)irch  with  small  sticky  leaves, 
casting  a  long,  motionless  shadow  u^^  on  the  dr}^  claN'ey  ruts 
and  the  short  green  grass  of  the  higliway.  The  monot- 
onous sound  of  the  wheels  and  bells  does  not  drown  the 
song  of  the  larks,  who  circle  close  to  the  very  road.  The 
smell  of  moth-eaten  cloth,  of  dust,  and  a  certain  sourness, 
which  cliaracterize  our  Ijritchka,  is  overpowered  by  the  per- 
fume of  the  morning  ;  and  I  feel  a  joyous  uneasiness  in  my 
soul,  a  desire  to  do  something,  which  is  a  sign  of  true  eu- 
joN'ment. 

1  luid  not  managed  to  say  niy  prayers  at  the  post-house ; 


118  '  BOYUOOD. 

but  as  I  Ьал'С  more  than  once  observed  that  some  misfortune 
happens  to  me  on  the  day  when,  from  an}'  eircuuislanee.  I 
forget  to  fulfil  this  ceremony,  I  make  an  effort  to  repair  my 
mistake.  I  take  off  my  cap,  turn  to  the  corner  of  the 
britchka,  recite  some  prayers,  and  cross  m^'self  under  my 
jacket  so  that  no  one  may  see  it.  But  a  thousand  different 
objects  distract  m}'  attention  ;  and  I  repeat  the  same  words 
of  the  prayer  several  times  over,  in  my  absence  of  mind. 

Yonder  on  the  footpath  which  winds  beside  the  road, 
some  slowly  moving  figures  are  visible  ;  the}'  are  pilgrin)s. 
Their  heads  are  enveloped  in  dirty  cloths  ;  sacks  of  birch- 
bark  are  bound  upon  their  backs  ;  their  feet  are  wrapped 
in  dirty,  tattered  footbauds,  and  shod  in  heavy  bast  shoes. 
Swaying  their  staves  in  unison,  and  hardh'  glancing  at  us, 
they  move  on  Avith  a  heavy  deliberate  tread,  one  after  the 
other;  and  questions  take  possession  of  my  mind,  —  whither 
are  the}'  going,  and  why?  will  their  journey  last  long?  and 
will  the  long  shadows  which  they  cast  upon  the  road,  soon 
unite  with  the  shadow  of  the  willow  which  they  must  pass  ? 
Here  a  calash  with  four  post-horses  comes  rapidly  to  meet  us. 
Two  seconds  more,  and  the  faces  which  looked  at  us  with 
polite  curiosity  at  a  distance  of  two  arshins  ^  have  already 
flashed  past ;  and  it  seems  strange  that  these  faces  have 
nothing  in  common  with  me,  and  that,  in  all  probability  I 
shall  never  behold  them  again. 

Here  come  two  shaggy,  perspiring  horses,  galloping  along 
the  side  of  the  road  in  their  halters,  with  the  traces  knotted 
up  to  the  breech  strap  ;  and  behind,  with  his  long  legs  and 
huge  shoes  dangling  on  each  side  of  a  horse,  over  whose 
forelock  hangs  the  dug^^  and  who  jingles  his  little  bells  almost 
inandibly  now  and  then,  rides  a  young  lad  of  a  postilion, 
with  his  lamb's-wool  cap  cocked  over  one  ear,  drawling  a 
long-drawn-out  song.  His  face  and  attitude  are  expressive 
of  so  much  lazy,  careless  content,  that  it  seems  to  me  it 
would  be  the  height  of  bliss  to  be  a  post-boy,  to  ride  the 
horses  home,  and  sing  some  melancholy  songs.  Yonder,  far 
beyond  the  гал'1пе,-а  village  church  with  its  green  roof  is 
visible  against  the  bright  blue  sky  ;  yonder  is  a  hamlet,  the 
red  roof  of  a  gentleman's  house,  and  a  green  garden.  Who 
lives  in  tliis  house?  Are  there  children  in  it,  father,  mother, 
tutor?     AVhy  should  we  not  go  to  this  house,  and  make  the 

'  Ли  arshiii  ie  twenty -eight  inches. 

2  Arch  over  the  middle  horse  of  a  troika,  or  three  horses  harnessed  abreast. 


BOYHOOD.  119 

acquaintance  of  the  owner?  Here  is  a  long  train  of  huge 
wagons  harnessed  to  troikas  of  well-fed,  thick-legged  horses, 
which  we  are  obliged  to  turn  out  to  pass.  "■  What  are  you 
carrying?"  inquiies  Vasili  of  the  first  carter,  who,  with  his 
big  feet  hanging  from  the  boai'd  which  forms  his  seat,  and 
flourisliing  his  whi[),  regards  us  for  a  long  time  with  an 
intent,  mindless  gaze,  and  only  makes  some  sort  of  reply 
when  it  is  impossible  for  him  not  to  hear.  "  With  what 
wares  do  j'ou  travel?  "  \"asili  asks,  turning  to  another  team, 
upon  whose  railed-in  front  lies  anotlier  carter  beneath  a  new 
rug.  A  blonde  head,  accompanied  b}'  a  I'ed  face  and  a  I'ed- 
dish  beard,  is  thrust  out  from  beneath  the  rug  for  a  moment ; 
it  casts  a  glance  of  inditfereut  scorn  upon  us,  and  disappears 
again  ;  and  the  thought  occurs  to  me  that  these  carters  surely 
cannot  know  who  we  are  and  whither  we  are  going. 

Absorbed  in  varied  meditations,  for  an  hour  and  a  half  I 
pay  no  heed  to  the  crooked  numbers  inscribed  upon  the  verst- 
stoues.  But  now  the  sun  begins  to  warm  my  head  and  back 
with  more  fervor,  the  road  grows  more  dusty,  the  triangular 
cover  of  the  tea-cadd}'  begins  to  discommode  me  greatl}',  and 
I  change  my  position  several  times.  I  am  becoming  hot  and 
uncomfortable  and  bored.  My  whole  attention  is  directed'to 
the  A4n'st-stones,  and  the  figures  upon  them.  I  make  A'arious 
mathematical  calculations  as  to  the  time  it  will  take  us  to 
reach  the  station. 

''Twelve  л-ersts  make  one-third  of  thii-ty-six,  and  it  is 
fort^'-one  to  Lipetz  :  consequently  we  have  travelled  only 
one-third  and  how  much?"  and  so  forth. 

'•Vasili,"  I  say,  when  I  оЬзегл'е  that  he  is  beginning  to 
nod  upon  the  box,  "  let  me  come  on  the  box,  that's  a  dear." 
Vasili  consents  ;  we  change  places  ;  he  immediately  begins 
to  snore  and  roll  about  so  that  there  is  no  room  left  for  any 
one  in  the  britchka  ;  and  before  me,  from  the  height  which  I 
occupy,  the  most  delightful  picture  presents  itself,  — our  four 
horses,  Nerutchinska^^a,  the  Deacon,  Lyevaya,  the  pole-horse, 
and  Apothecary,  all  of  whom  I  know  by  laeart  in  the  most 
minute  details  and  shades  of  each  quality. 

"Why  is  the  Deacon  on  the  right  side  to-day  instead  of 
on  the  left,  Philip?"   I  inquired  with  some  diffidence. 

"  Deacon?" 

"  And  Nerutchinskaya  is  not  drawing  at  all,"  I  say. 

"  It  is  impossible  to  harness  the  Deacon  on  the  left,"  says 
Phili[),  paying  no  attention  to  my  last  remark.      "  He  is  not 


l20  boyhood. 

;lie  kind  of  a  horse  which  can  be  harnessed  on  the  left ;  on 
the  left  a  liorse  is  needed  which  is  a  horse,  in  one  word,  and 
lie's  not  such  a  horse  as  that." 

And  with  these  words  Philip  bends  over  to  the  right,  and, 
pulling  on  the  reins  with  all  his  might,  he  begins  to  whip 
poor  Deacon  on  the  tail  and  legs,  in  a  peculiar  manner,  from 
below ;  and  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  Deacon  tries  with  all  his 
might,  and  drags  the  whole  britchka  along,  Philip  ceases 
this  man<£uvre  only  when  he  finds  it  necessar}'  to  take  a  rest 
and  to  tip  his  hat  over  on  one  side,  for  some  unknown 
reason,  although  it  was  sitting  very  properly  and  firmly  on 
his  head  already.  1  take  advantage  of  this  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, and  beg  Philip  to  let  me  drive.  At  first  Philip  gives 
me  one  rein,  then  another;  and  finally  all  six  reins  and  the 
whip  are  transferred  to  my  hands  and,  I  am  perfectly  happy. 
I  endeavor  in  ел^егу  wa}"  to  imitate  Philii) ;  I  ask  him  whether 
that  is  right :  but  it  generally  ends  in  his  leaving  me  dissatis- 
fied ;  he  says  that  one  horse  is  pulling  a  great  deal,  and  that 
another  is  not  pulling  at  all,  thrusts  his  elbow  out  in  front 
of  my  breast,  and  takes  the  reins  away  from  me.  The  heat 
increases  continuall}-.  The  little  white  clouds,  which  we  call 
sheep,  begin  to  puff  up  higher  and  higher,  like  soap-bul»l)les, 
then  unite  and  take  on  a  dark-gray  tint.  A  hand,  holding 'a 
bottle  and  a  little  package,  emerges  from  the  coach  window. 
Vasili  leaps  from  the  box  with  wonderful  agility,  while  we 
are  in  motion,  and  brings  us  little  cheesecakes  and  kvas. 

We  all  alight  from  the  carriages  at  a  sharp  descent,  and 
have  a  race  to  the  bridge,  while  \^asili  and  Yakov  put  on  the 
brakes,  and  support  the  coach  on  both  sides  with  their  hands 
as  though  they  were  able  to  restrain  it  if  it  fell.  Then,  with 
Mimi's  permission,  either  I  or  Volod^a  seat  ourselves  in 
the  coach,  and  Liubotchka  or  Katenka  takes  the  place  in  the 
britchka.  These  changes  afford  the  girls  great  pleasure,  be- 
cause, as  the}^  jiistW  decide,  it  is  jollier  in  the  britchka. 
Sometimes,  when  it  is  hot  and  we  are  passing  through  the 
woods,  we  linger  behind  the  coach,  tear  off  green  boughs,  and 
build  an  arbor  in  the  britchka.  This  moving  arbor  overtakes 
the  coach,  and  Liubotchka  pipes  np  in  the  most  piercing  of 
voices,  which  she  never  forgets  to  do  on  any  occasion  which 
affords  her  pleasure. 

But  here  is  the  village  where  we  are  to  dine  and  rest.  We 
have  already  smelled  the  village,  the  smoke,  tar,  lamb-skins. 
ЛУе  have  heard  the  sound  of  conversation,  steps  and  wlieels ; 


BOYHOOD.  121 

the  bells  alreadj'  sound  differently  from  what  they  did  in  the 
open  fields  ;  and  izbas  (eottages)  appear  on  either  side  with 
their  thatched  roofs,  carved  wooden  porches,  and  little  win- 
dows with  red  and  green  shutters,  between  which  the  face 
of  a  curious  woman  peeps  out.  Here  are  the  little  peasant 
boys  and  girls,  clad  only  in  thin  little  smocks,  who  open 
their  eyes  wide,  and  throw  out  Iheir  hands  and  stand  motion- 
less on  one  spot,  or  run  swiftl}'  with  their  little  bare  feet 
through  the  dust,  after  the  carriages,  and  try  to  climb  upon 
the  trunks,  in  spite  of  Philip's  menacing  gestures.  The 
blonde  inhabitants  hasten  up  to  the  carriages  from  every  di- 
rection, and  endea\'or.  with  alluring  words  and  gestures,  to 
entice  the  travellers  from  each  other.  Tpru  !  the  gate  creaks, 
the  splinter-bar  catches  on  the  gate-posts,  and  we  enter  the 
court-yard.     Four  hours  of  rest  and  freedom  ! 


122  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER   II. 

THE    THUNDER-STORM. 

The  sun  declined  toAvards  the  west,  and  burned  m}'  neck 
and  cheeks  intolerably  with  its  hot,  slanting  rays.  It  was  im- 
possible to  toucli  tlie  scorching  sides  of  the  britchka.  The 
dust  rose  thickly  in  the  road,  and  filled  the  air.  There  was 
not  the  slightest  breeze  to  carry  it  awa3\  In  front  of  us,  and 
always  at  the  same  distance,  rolled  the  tall,  dusty  body  of  the 
coach  and  the  splinter-bar,  from  behind  whicli.  now  and  then, 
the  knout  was  visible  as  the  coachman  flourished  it,  as  well 
as  his  hat  and  Yakov's  cap.  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  with 
mN'self ;  neither  Volod3'a's  face,  which  was  black  with  dust, 
as  he  dozed  beside  me,  nor  the  moA^ements  of  Philip's  back, 
nor  the  long  shadow  of  our  britchka,  which  followed  us  be- 
neath the  oblique  rays  of  the  sun,  afforded  me  any  diversion. 
My  entire  attention  Avas  directed  to  the  verst-stones,  which  I 
perceived  in  the  distance,  and  to  the  clouds,  лу1псЬ  had  be- 
fore been  scattered  over  the  sk}^  and  had  now  collected  into 
one  big,  dark  mass.  From  time  to  time,  the  thunder  rum- 
bled afar.  This  last  circumstance,  more  than  all  the  rest,  in- 
creased my  impatience  to  reach  the  post-house  as  speedily  as 
possible.  A  thunder-storm  occasioned  me  an  indescribably 
oppressive  sensation  of  sadness  and  terror. 

It  was  still  ten  versts  to  the  nearest ;  but  the  gTcat,  dark, 
purple  cloud  which  had  collected,  God  knows  whence,  without 
the  smallest  breeze,  was  moving  swiftly  upon  us.  The  sun, 
which  is  not  yet  hidden  by  the  clouds,  brightly  illumines  its 
dark  form,  and  the  gray  streaks  which  extend  from  it  to  the 
very  horizon.  From  time  to  time,  the  lightning  flashes  in 
the  distance  ;  and  a  faint,  dull  roar  is  audible,  which  gradu- 
ally increases  in  volume,  api)r()aclies,  and  changes  into 
broken  peals  which  embrace  the  whole  heavens.  Vasili  stai;ds 
upon  tiie  box.  and  raises  the  cover  of  the  britchka.  The 
coachmen  put  on  their  armyaks,  and,  at  every  clap  of  than- 


BOYHOOD.  123 

cler,  remove  their  hats  and  cioss  themselves.  The  horses 
prick  up  tlieir  ears,  pulT  out  their  nostrils  as  if  smelling  the 
fresh  air  which  is  wafted  from  the  approaching  thunder-cloud, 
and  the  britchka  rolls  faster  along  the  dusty  road.  I  feel 
oppressed,  and  am  conscious  that  the  blood  courses  more 
rapidly  tlu'ough  my  veins.  But  the  advance  guard  of  clouds 
already  begins  to  conceal  the  sun  ;  now  it  has  peeped  forth  for 
the  last  time,  has  illumined  the  terrilily  dark  portion  of  the 
horizon,  and  vanished.  The  entire  landsca[)e  suddenly  under- 
goes a  change,  and  assumes  a  gloomy  character.  The  ash 
woods  quiver ;  the  leaves  take  on  a  kind  of  dull  whitish  hue, 
and  stand  out  against  the  purple  background  of  cloud,  and 
rustle  and  flutter ;  the  crowns  of  the  great  birches  begin  to 
rock,  and  tufts  of  dry  grass  fly  across  the  road.  The  water 
and  white-breasted  swallows  circle  about  the  britclika,  and  fly 
beneath  the  horses,  as  though  with  tlie  intention  of  stopping 
us  ;  daws  with  ruffled  wings  fly  sideways  to  tlie  wind  :  the 
edges  of  the  leather  apron,  which  we  have  buttoned  up,  begin 
to  rise,  and  admit  bursts  of  moist  wind,  and  flap  and  beat 
against  the  body  of  the  carriage.  The  ligiitning  seems  to 
flash  in  the  britchka  itself,  dazzles  the  vision,  and  for  a 
moment  lights  up  the  gray  cloth,  the  border  gimp,  ami  \o- 
lodj'a's  figure  cowering  in  a  corner.  At  the  same  moment, 
direcllj'  above  our  heads,  a  majestic  roar  resounds,  which 
seems  to  rise  ever  higher  and  higher,  and  to  spread  ever 
wider  and  wider,  in  a  vast  spiral,  gradually  gaining  force, 
until  it  passes  into  a  deafening  crash,  Avhich  causes  one  to 
tremble  and  hold  one's  breath  involuntaril}-.  The  wrath  of 
God  !  how  much  poetry  there  is  in  this  conception  of  the 
common  people  ! 

The  wheels  whirl  faster  and  faster.  From  the  backs  of 
Vasil}'  and  Philip,  who  is  flourishing  his  reins,  I  [)erceive  that 
they  are  afraid.  The  britchka  rolls  swiftly  down  the  hill. 
and  thunders  over  the  bridge  of  planks.  I  am  afraid  to 
move,  and  momentarily  await  our  universal  destruction. 

Tpru  !  the  trace  is  broken,  and  in  spite  of  the  unceasing, 
deafening  claps  of  thunder,  луе  are  forced  to  halt  upon  the 
bridge. 

I  lean  my  head  against  the  side  of  the  britchka,  and,  catch- 
ing my  breath  with  a  sinking  of  the  heart,  I  listen  despair- 
ingly to  the  movements  of  Philip's  fat  black  fingers,  as  he 
slowly  ties  a  knot,  and  straightens  out  the  traces,  and  strikes 
the  side  horse  with  palm  and  whip-handle. 


124  BOY  HOOT). 

The  uneasy  feelings  of  sadness  and  terror  increase  within 
me  with  tlie  force  of  the  storm  ;  l)ut  when  the  grand  mo- 
m^mt  of  silence  arrives,  which  generally  i)recedes  the  thnn- 
der-clap,  these  feelings  had  reached  such  a  point,  that,  if 
this  state  of  things  had  lasted  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  1  am 
couvineed  that  I  should  have  died  of  excitement.  At  the 
same  moment,  there  appears  from  beneath  the  l)ridg4'  a 
human  form,  clothed  in  a  dirtv,  ragged  shirt,  with  a  bloated 
senseless  face,  a  shaven,  wagging,  totally  uncovered  head, 
crooked,  nerveless  legs,  and  a  shining  red  stump  in  place 
of  a  hand,  which  he  thrusts  out  directly  at  the  britchka. 

'•'  Ba-a-schka  !  ^  Help-a-cripple-for-Christ's-sake  !  "  says 
the  beggar,  beginning  to  repeat  his  petition  by  rote,  i.i  a 
weak  voice,  as  he  crosses  himself  at  every  Avord,  and  b.ows 
to  his  very  belt. 

I  cannot  describe  the  feeling  of  chill  terror  wliich  took 
possession  of  my  soul  at  that  moment.  A  sliudder  ran 
through  my  hair,  and  my  eyes  were  riveted  on  the  beggar, 
in  a  stupor  of  fright. 

Vasili,  who  bestows  the  alms  on  the  journey,  is  giving 
Ihilip  directions  how  to  strengthen  the  trac3  ;■  and  it  is  only 
wlien  all  is  ready,  and  Philip,  gathering  up  the  reins,  climbs 
upon  the  box,  that  he  begins  to  draw  something  from  his 
side  pocket.  But  we  have  no  sooner  started  than  a  dazzling 
Hash  of  lightning,  which  fills  the  whole  ravine  for  a  moment 
with  its  fiery  glare,  brings  the  horses  to  a  stand,  and  is  ac- 
companied, without  the  slightest  interval,  by  such  a  deafen- 
ing clap  of  thunder  that  it  seems  as  though  the  whole  vault 
of  heaven  were  falling  in  ruins  upon  us.  The  wind  increases  ; 
the  manes  and  tails  of  the  horses,  \"asily's  cloak,  and  the 
edges  of  the  apron,  take  one  direction,  and  flutter  wildly  in 
the  buists  of  the  raging  gale.  A  great  drop  of  rain  fell 
hoavil}'  upon  the  leathar  hood  of  the  britchka,  then  a  second, 
a  third,  a  fourth ;  and  all  at  once  it  beat  upon  us  like  a 
drum,  and  the  whole  landscape  resounded  with  the  regular 
nuumur  of  falling  rain.  1  perceive,  from  the  movement  of 
A'asili's  elbow,  that  he  is  untying  his  purse ;  the  beggar,  still 
crossing  himself  and  bowing,  runs  close  to  the  wheel,  so  that 
it  seems  as  if  he  w^uld  be  crushed.  "  Give-for-Chiist's- 
sake  !  "  At  last  a  copper  groschen  flies  past  us.  and  the 
wretched  creature  halts  with  surprise  in  the  middle  of  the 
road  ;   his  smock,  wet  through  and  through,  and  clinging  to 

'  Imperfect  proiiuuciation  of  batimnlika,  litUe  father. 


BOYHOOD.  125 

his  lean  limbs,  flutters  in  the  gale,  and  he  disappears  from 
our  sight. 

The  slanting  rain,  driving  before  a  strong  wind,  ponred 
down  as  from  a  bucket;  streams  trickled  from  Vasili's  frieze 
back  into  the  puddle  of  dirty  water  which  had  collected  on 
the  apron.  The  dust,  wliich  at  first  had  been  beaten  into 
pellets,  was  converted  into  liquid  mud,  through  which  tlie 
wheels  splashed  ;  the  jolts  became  fewer,  and  turbid  brooks 
flowed  in  the  ruts.  The  lightning-flashes  grew  broader  and 
paler ;  the  thunder-claps  were  no  longer  so  startling  after  tiie 
uniform  sound  of  the  rain. 

Now  the  rain  grows  less  violent ;  the  thunder-cloud  l)egins 
to  disperse  ;  light  appears  in  the  place  where  the  sun  should 
be,  and  a  scrap  of  clear  azure  is  almost  visible  through  the 
grayish-white  edges  of  the  cloud.  A  moment  more,  and 
a  timid  ray  of  sunlight  gleams  in  the  pools  along  the  road, 
upon  the  sheets  of  fine,  perpendicular  rain  whicli  fall  as  if 
tin'ough  a  sieve,  and  upon  the  «hining,  newly  waslied  verdure 
of  the  wayside  grass. 

The  black  thunder-cloud  oA'erspreads  the  opposite  portion 
of  the  sky  in  equall}'  threatening  fashion,  but  1  no  longer 
fear  it.  1  experience  an  inexpressibly  joyous  feeling  of  hope 
in  life,  which  has  quickly  taken  the  place  of  )ny  oppressive 
sensation  of  fear.  My  soul  smiles,  like  Nature,  refrcbhed 
and  enlivened. 

Vasily  turns  down  his  с  jat-collar,  takes  off  the  apron,  and 
shakes  it.  I  lean  out  of  the  britchka,  and  eagerly  drink 
in  the  fresh,  perfumed  air.  The  shining,  well-washed  body  of 
the  coach,  with  its  cross-bar  and  trunks,  rolls  along  in  front 
of  us  ;  the  backs  of  the  horses,  the  breeching  and  reins, 
the  tires  of  the  wheels,  all  are  wet,  and  glitter  in  the  sun  as 
though  covered  with  lacquer.  On  one  side  of  the  road,  a 
limitless  field  of  winter  wheat,  intersected  here  and  there  by 
shallow  channels,  gleams  with  damp  earth  and  verdure,  and 
spreads  in  a  carpet  of  varying  tints  to  the  very  horizon  ;  on 
the  other  side  an  ash  grove,  with  an  undergrowth  of  nut- 
bushes  and  wild  cherry,  stands  as  in  an  overflow  of  bliss, 
quite  motionless,  and  sloAvly  sheds  the  bright  rain-drops  from 
its  well-Avashed  liranches  upon  last  year's  dr}'  leaves.  Crest- 
ed larks  flutter  about  on  all  sides  Avith  joyous  song  and  fall ; 
in  the  wet  bushes,  the  uneasy  movements  of  little  birds  are 
audible,  and  the  note  of  the  cuckoo  is  wafted  distinctly 
from  the  heart  of  the  wood.     The  marvellous  perfume  of  the 


126  вотпоов. 

forest  is  so  enchanting  after  this  spring  thunder-storm,  the  scent 
of  the  birches,  the  violets,  the  dead  leaves,  the  mushrooms, 
the  wild-cherry  trees,  that  I  cannot  sit  still  in  the  britchka, 
but  jump  from  the  step,  run  to  the  bushes,  and  in  spite  of 
the  shower  of  rain-drops  I  tear  off  branches  of  the  fluttering 
cherry-trees,  switch  my  face  with  them,  and  drink  in  their 
wondrous  perfume. 

Without  heeding  the  fact  that  great  clods  of  mud  adhere 
to  my  boots,  and  that  my  stockings  were  wet  through  long 
ago,  1  splash  through  the  mud,  at  a  run,  to  the  window  of 
the  coach. 

'' Liubotchka !  Katenka  !  "  I  cry,  handing  in  several 
branches  of  cherr}',  "see  how  beautiful!" 

The  girls  pipe  up,  and  cry  "ah!"  Mimi  screams  that 
1  am  to  go  away,  or  I  shall  infallibly  be  crushed. 

"  Smell  how  sweet  it  is  !  "  1  shout. 


BOYUOOD.  127 


CHAPTER  HI. 

A  NEW  VIEW. 

Katexka  was  sitting  beside  me  in  the  britclika,  and,  with 
her  pretty  head  bent,  was  thoughtfully  watching  the  dusty 
road  as  it  flew  past  beneath  the  wheels.  I  gazed  at  her 
in  silence,  and  wondered  at  the  sad,  uuchildish  expression, 
which  I  encountered  for  the  first  time  on  her  rosy  little 
face. 

"  We  shall  soon  be  in  Moscow  now,"  said  I.  "  What  do 
you  think  it  is  like?" 

"I  do  not  know,"  she  answered  unwillingly. 

"  But  what  do  you  think?  Is  it  bigger  than  Serpukhof, 
or  not?  " 

''What?" 

"Oh,  nothing." 

But  through  that  instinct  by  means  of  which  one  person 
divines  the  thoughts  of  another,  and  which  sei'ves  as  a  guid- 
ing-thread in  conversation,  Katenka  understood  that  her  in- 
ditferenee  pained  me :  she  raised  her  head,  and  turned 
towards  me. 

"Your  papa  has  told  you  that  we  are  to  live  with  gi-and- 
mamma  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  grandmamma  insists  on  our  living  with  her." 

"  And  we  are  all  to  live  tliere?  " 

"Of  course:  we  shall  live  up-stairs  in  one  half  of  the 
house  ;  you  will  live  in  the  other  half,  and  papa  will  live 
in  the  лving  ;  but  we  shall  all  dine  together  down-stairs  with 
grandmamma." 

"Mamma  sa3's  that  your  grandmother  is  so  majestic  — 
and  cross." 

"  No-o !  She  only  seems  so  at  first.  She  is  majestic, 
but  not  at  all  cross  :  on  the  contrary,  she  is  very  kind  and 
clieerful.  If  you  had  only  seen  what  a  ball  we  had  on  her 
name-day !  " 


128  в  or  HOOD. 

"  NeA'ertheless,  T  am  afriiid  of  her;  and  besides,  God 
knows  if  we  shall  "  — 

Katenka  stopped  suddeidy,  and  again  fell  into  thought. 

"  What  is  it?  "  1  asked  uneasily. 

"  Nothing." 

"  Yes,  but  3'ou  said,   '  God  knows  '  "  — 

"  And  you  said,  '  Wliat  a  ball  we  had  at  grandmamina's.'  "' 

"•Yes,  it's  a  pity  that  you  were  not  there:  there  were 
ever  so  many  guests, — forty  people,  music,  generals,  and  I 
danced.  Katenka  !  "  1  said  all  at  once,  pausing  in  the  middle 
of  my  desci'iption,  "you  are  not  listening." 

''  Yes,  I  am  :  j'ou  said  that  30U  danced.' 

"Why  are  люи  so  sad?" 

"  One  can't  be  gay  all  the  time." 

"No:  you  have  changed  greatly  since  we  returned  from 
Moscow.  Tell  me  trulv,"  I  added,  Avith  a  look  of  (h^termi- 
nation,  as  I  turned  towards  her,  "why  have  you  grown  so 
strange?  " 

"Am  I  strange ?"  replied  Katenka,  with  an  animation 
which  showed  that  my  remark  interested  her.  "  1  am  not 
at  all  strange." 

"  You  are  not  as  you  were  formerly,"  I  went  on.  "  It 
used  to  be  evident  that  we  were  one  in  every  thing,  that  you 
regarded  us  as  relatives,  and  loved  us,  just  as  we  did  you  ; 
and  now  3'Ou  have  become  so  serious,  you  keep  apart  from 
us   ' — 

"Not  at  all!  " 

"No,  let  me  finish,"  I  interrupted,  alread}'  beginning  to 
be  conscious  of  a  slight  tickling  in  my  nose,  which  preceded 
the  tears  that  were  always  rising  to  my  eyes,  when  I  gave 
utterance  to  a  long-rejiressed,  tender  thought.  "You  with- 
draw from  us  ;  j'ou  talk  onlj^  with  Mimi,  as  if  you  did  not 
want  to  know  us." 

"Well,  it's  impossible  to  remain  the  same  always;  one 
must  change  some  time,"  replied  Katenka,  who  had  a  habit 
of  explaining  every  thing  by  a  kind  of  fatalistic  necessity, 
when  she  did  not  know  what  to  say. 

I  remember  that  once,  after  quarrelling  with  Liuliotciika, 
who  had  called  hev  a  stupid  little  girl,  she  answered,  "  Every- 
body cannot  be  wise:  some  people  must  be  stupid."  But 
this  rei)ly,  that  a  change  was  necessary  sometimes,  did  not 
satisfy  me,  and  I  pursued  my  inquiries  : 

"  Why  is  it  necessary?  " 


BOYHOOD.  129 

"  Why,  we  can't  live  together  always,"  answered  Katen- 
ka,  reddening  slightly,  and  staring  steadily  at  Philip's  back. 
"  My  mamma  could  live  with  your  dead  mamma,  because  she 
was  her  friend  ;  but  God  knows  wdiether  she  will  get  along 
with  ihe  countess,  who  is  said  to  be  so  cross.  Besides,  we 
must  part  some  da}',  in  any  case.  You  are  rich,  you  have 
Petrovskoe  ;  but  we  are  poor,  my  mamma  has  nothing." 

You  are  rich  ;  we  ai'e  poor  !  These  words,  and  the  ideas 
connected  with  them,  seemed  very  strange  to  me.  Accord- 
ing to  my  notions  at  that  period,  onlj-  beggars  an*^.  peasants 
.could  be  poor,  and  this  idea  of  poverty  I  coulo  inever  rec- 
oncile in  my  imagination  with  pretty,  graceful  Katya.  It 
seemed  to  me,  that,  since  Mimi  and  Katya  had  once  lived 
with  us,  they  would  always  do  so,  and  share  every  thing 
equally.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  But  now  a  thousand 
new,  undefined  thoughts,  touching  their  position,  dawned  on 
m}'  brain  ;  and  I  was  so  ashamed  that  we  were  rich,  that  I 
blushed,  and  positively  could  not  look  Katenka  in  the  face. 

'"What  does  it  mean?"  I  thought,  "that  we  are  rich 
and  they  are  poor?  And  how  does  that  entail  the  neces- 
sity of  a  separation?  Why  cannot  we  share  what  we  have 
equall}"?"  But  I  understood  that  it  was  not  fitting  that  I 
should  speak  to  Katenka  about  this  ;^  and  some  practical  in- 
tinct,  which  ran  contrary  to  these  logical  deductions,  already 
told  me  that  she  was  right,  and  that  it  would  be  out  of  place 
to  explain  this  idea  to  her. 

"Are  5'ou  actually  going  to  leave  us?"  I  said.  "How 
shall  we  live  apart?  " 

"  What  is  to  be  done?  It  pains  me  too  ;  but  if  this  takes 
place,  I  know  what  I  shall  do." 

"  You  will  become  an  actress  !  What  nonsense  !  "  I  broke 
ia,  knowing  that  it  had  alwaj's  been  one  of  her  cherished 
dreams  to  be,  an  actress. 

"  No  :  I  said  that  when  I  was  very  small." 

"  What  will  you  do,  then?  " 

"  I  will  go  into  a  monastery,  and  live  there,  and  go  about 
in  a  black  gown  and  a  velvet  hood." 

Katenka  began  to  cry. 

Has  it  ever  happened  to  you,  reader,  to  perceive,  all  at 
once,  at  a  certain  period  of  your  life,  tliat  your  view  of  things 
has  entirely  changed  :  as  tliough  ail  the  objects  which  you 
had  seen  hitherto  had  suddenly  turned  another  side  to  you  ? 
This  species  of    moral  change  took  [)lace  ia  me  for  tlie  first 


130  BOYHOOD. 

time  during  our  journey,  from  which  epoch  I  date  the  begin- 
ning of  my  boyhood. 

For  the  first  time  a  distinct  idea  entered  my  head,  that  not 
our  family  alone  inhabited  this  world  ;  that  all  interests  did 
not  revolve  about  us  ;  and  that  there  exists  another  life  for 
people  who  have  nothing  in  conmion  with  us,  who  care  noth- 
ing for  us,  who  have  no  idea  of  our  existence  even.  No 
doubt,  I  had  known  all  this  before  ;  but  I  had  not  known  it 
as  1  knew  it  now.     I  did  not  acknowledge  it  or  feel  it. 

A  thouij^ht  often  passes  into  conviction  by  one  familiar 
path,  whic-iis  often  entirely  unexpected  and  apart  from  the 
paths  which  other  souls  traverse  to  arrive  at  the  same  con- 
clusion. The  conversation  with  Katenka,  wdiich  affected  me 
powerfully,  and  caused  me  to  reflect  upon  her  future  position, 
constituted  that  i)ath  for  me.  When  I  looked  at  the  villages 
and  towns  which  we  traversed,  in  every  house  of  which  lived 
at  least  one  such  family  as  ours  ;  at  the  women  and  children 
who  gazed  after  our  carriages  with  momentary  curiosity,  and 
vanished  forever  from  sight ;  ■  at  the  shopkeepers  and  the 
peasants,  who  not  only  did  not  salute  us  as  I  was  accustomed 
to  see  them  do  in  Petrovskoe,  but  did  not  deign  so  much  as 
a  glance, — the  question  entered  my  mind  for  the  first  time, 
what  could  occupy  them  if  they  cared  nothing  for  us?  And 
from  this  question,  others  arose  :  how  and  by  what  means  do 
they  live?  how  do  they  bring  up  their  children?  do  they  in- 
struct them,  or  let  them  play?  how  do  they  punish  them? 
and  so  forth. 


BOYHOOD.  131 


CHAPTER   IV. 

IN    MOSCOW. 

On  our  arrival  in  Moscow,  the  change  in  my  views  of 
things,  people,  and  my  own  relations  to  them,  became  still 
more  sensible.  When,  at  ni}'  first  meeting  with  grandmamma, 
I  saw  her  thin  wrinkled  face  and  dim  eyes,  the  feeling  of 
servile  reverence  and  terror  which  I  had  entertained  for  her 
changed  to  one  of  sympathy.  It  made  me  uncomfortable  to 
see  her  sorrow  at  meeting  us.  I  recognized  the  fact  that 
we,  of  ourselves,  were  nothing  in  her  eyes  ;  that  we  were 
dear  to  her  as  memories.  I  felt  that  this  thought  was  ex- 
pressed in  every  one  of  the  kisses  with  which  she  covered 
my  cheeks :  '' She  is  dead;  she  is  gone;  I  shall  never  see 
her  more." 

Papa,  who  had  next  to  nothing  to  do  with  us  in  Moscow, 
and,  with  ever-anxious  face,  came  to  us  only  at  dinner-time,  in 
a  black  coat  or  dress-suit,  lost  a  great  deal  in  my  eyes,  along 
with  his  big  flaring  collars,  his  dressing-gown,  his  stewards, 
his  clerks,  and  his  expeditions  of  the  threshing-floor  and  hunt- 
ing. Karl  Ivanitch,  whom  grandmamma  called  dyacUrt,  and 
who  had  suddenly  taken  it  into  his  head,  God  knows  why,  to 
exchange  his  respectable  and  familiar  baldness  for  a  red  wig 
with  a  parting  almost  in  the  middle  of  his  head,  seemed  to 
me  so  strange  and  ridiculous,  that  I  wondered  how  I  could 
have  failed  to  remark  it  before. 

Some  invisible  barrier  also  made  its  appearance  between 
the  girls  and  us.  Both  tliey  and  we  had  our  own  secrets. 
They  seemed  to  take  on  airs  l)efore  ns  over  their  petticoats, 
which  grew  longer,  and  we  were  proud  of  our  trousers  with 
straps.  And  jNIimi  appeared  at  the  first  Sunday  dinner  in 
such  an  elegant  gown,  and  with  such  ribbons  on  her  head, 
that  it  was  at  once  apparent  that  we  were  not  in  the  country, 
uud  that  ever}-  thing  was  to  be  different  now. 


132  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    ELDER    BROTHER. 

I  WAS  only  a  3'ear  aud  some  months  younp;er  than  Volodya  : 
we  had  grown  up,  studied  aud  played  together  always.  The 
distinction  of  elder  and  younger  was  not  made  between  us. 
But  just  about  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking  I  began  to 
comprehend  that  Volodya  was  not  my  comrade  in  years,  in- 
clinations, and  qualities.  It  even  seemed  to  me  that  Volodya 
recognized  his  superiority,  and  was  proud  of  it.  This  con- 
viction, possibly  a  false  one,  inspired  me  with  self-love, 
луЬ1сЬ  suffered  at  every  encounter  with  him.  He  stood 
higher  than  1  in  ел''егу  thing,  —  in  amusements,  in  studies,  in 
quarrels,  in  the  knowledge  of  how  to  conduct  himself ;  and 
all  this  removed  me  to  a  distance  from  him,  aud  caused  me 
to  experience  moral  torments  which  were  incompreheusible 
to  me.  If,  on  the  first  occasion  when  Volodya  put  on  linen 
shirts  with  plaits,  I  had  said  plainly  that  I  was  vexed  at  not 
having  the  same,  I  am  sure  that  I  should  have  been  more 
comfortable,  and  it  would  not  have  seemed,  every  time  that 
he  adjusted  his  collar,  that  it  was  done  solel}'  in  order  to  hurt 
m\'  feelings. 

What  tormented  me  most  of  all  was,  that  Volodya  under- 
stood me,  as  it  seemed  to  me  at  times,  but  tried  to  hide  it. 

Who  has  not  remarked  those  secret,  wordless  relations 
which  are  shown  in  an  imperceptible  smile,  a  motiou  or  a 
glance,  between  people  who  live  together  constantl}',  brothers, 
friends,  husband  and  wife,  master  aud  servant,  and  j)articu- 
larly  when  these  people  are  not  in  ever}'  respect  frank  with 
each  other !  How  many  unuttered  desires,  thoughts,  and 
fears  — of  being  understood  —  are  expressed  in  one  casual 
glance  when  our  e3'es  meet  timidl}*  and  irresolutely  ! 
^-~— i*ut  possibly  I  was  deceived  on  this  point  by  my  excessive 
s?n8>!)ility,  and  tendency  to  analysis  ;  perhaps  Volodya  did 
not  feel  at  all  as  I  did.     He  was  impetuous,  frank,  aud  iu- 


BOYHOOD.  133 

constant  in  his  im?4ilses.  He  was  carried  away  by  the  most 
diverse  oljjects,  t  ad  he  entered  into  them  with  his  whole 
soul. 

At  one  time  a  passion  for  pictures  took  possession  of  him  : 
he  took  to  drawing  himself,  spent  all  his  money  on  it,  begged 
of  his  drawing-master,  of  papa  and  of  grandmamma  ;  then  it 
was  a  passion  for  articles  with  which  he  decorated  his  table, 
and  he  collected  them  from  all  parts  of  the  house  r  then  a 
passion  for  romances,  Avhich  he  pi'ocured  on  the  sl3%  and  read 
all  day  and  all  night.  I  was  involuntarily  carried  away  by 
his  hobbies  ;  but  I  Avas  too  proud  to  follow  in  his  footsteps, 
and  too  young  and  too  little  self-dependent  to  select  a  new 
path.  But  there  was  nothing  лvhich  I  envied  so  much  as 
^'olod3'a's  happy,  frank,  and  noble  character,  which  was  dis- 
pla3'ed  with  special  clearness  in  the  quarrels  which  took  place 
between  us.  I  felt  that  he  behaved  well,  but  could  not 
imitate  him. 

Once,  during  the  greatest  fervor  of  his  passion  for  orna- 
mental articles,  I  went  up  to  his  table,  and  unintentiouall}' 
broke  an  empty  variegated  little  smelling-bottle. 

"  Who  asked  you  to  touch  my  things?  "  said  A^olodya,  as 
he  entered  the  room,  and  perceived  the  havoc  which  I  had 
vv'rouglit  in  the  symraetr}'  of  the  varied  ornaments  of  his 
table;  "and  Avhere's  that  little  smelling-bottle?  you  must 
have"  — 

"I  dropped  it  unintentionally:  it  broke.  Where's  the 
harm?" 

"  Please  never  to  dare  to  touch  ray  things,"  he  said,  put- 
ting the  bits  of  the  broken  bottle  together,  and  regarding 
them  sorrowfully. 

'■' Please  don't  give  any  orders,"  I  retovted.  "I  broke  it, 
that's  the  end  of  it:  what's  the  use  of  talking  about  it?  " 

And  I  smiled,  although  I  had  not  the  least  desire  to  smile. 

''  Yes,  it's  nothing  to  you,  but  it's  something  to  me,"  went 
on  \'olodya,  making  that  motion  of  shrugging  his  shoulders 
Avhich  he  had  inherited  from  papa:  "he  has  broken  it,  and 
yet  he  laughs,  this  intolerable  little  boy !  " 

"  I  am  a  little  boy,  but  you  are  big  and  stupid." 

"  I  don't  mean  to  quarrel  with  you,"  said  Volodya,  giving 
me  a  slight  push  :  "go  away." 

"  Don't  3'ou  push  me  !  " 

"Go  away!  " 

"  I  tell  you,  dou't  you  piibh  me  !  " 


134  BOYHOOD. 

Volodya  took  me  Ъу  the  hand,  and  tried  to  drag  me  away 
from  the  table  ;  but  1  was  irritated  to  the  highest  degree.  I 
seized  the  table  by  the  leg,  and  tipped  it  over.  "  Take  that !  " 
and  all  the  ornaments  of  porcelain  and  glass  were  shivered 
in  pieces  on  the  floor. 

''  You  disgusting  little  boy  !  "  shrieked  Volodya,  attempt- 
ing to  upliold  the  tailing  ornaments. 

"•Well,  every  thing  is  at  an  end  between  ns  now!"  I 
thought,  as  I  quitted  the  room:  "we  have  quarrelled  for- 
ever." 

We  did  not  speak  to  each  other  until  evening :  I  felt 
myself  in  the  wrong,  was  afraid  to  look  at  him,  and  could 
not  occupy  myself  with  any  thing  all  day  long.  Volodya,  on 
the  contrary,  studied  well,  and  chatted  and  laughed  with  the 
girls  after  dinner,  as  usual. 

As  soon  as  our  teacher  had  finished  his  lessons,  I  left  the 
room.  I  was  too  afraid,  awkward,  and  conscience-stricken 
to  remain  alone  with  my  brother.  After  the  evening  lesson 
in  history,  I  took  my  note-book,  and  started  towards  the 
door.  As  I  passed  Volodya,  in  spite  of  the  fact ,  that  I 
wanted  to  go  up  to  him,  and  make  peace,  I  pouted,  and  tried 
to  put  on  an  angry  face.  Volotlya  raised  his  head  just  at 
that  moment,  and  with  a  barely  perceptible,  good-naturedly 
derisive  smile,  looked  boldly  at  me.  Our  eyes  met,  and  I 
knew  that  he  understood  me,  and  also  that  I  understood  that 
he  understood  me  ;  but  an  insuperable  feeling  made  me  turn 
away. 

"  Nikolinka !  "  he  said,  in  his  usual  simple  and  not  at  all 
pathetic  voice  :  "j^u've  been  angry  long  enough.  Forgive 
me  if  I  insulted  3'ou." 

And  he  gave  me  his  hand. 

All  at  once,  something  rose  higher  and  higher  in  my  breast, 
and  began  to  oppress  me,  and  stop  my  breath  :  tears  came 
to  my  eyes,  and  I  felt  better. 

"  For-give  me,  Vol-dya  !  "  I  said,  squeezing  his  hand. 

But  ^'olodya  looked  at  me  as  though  he  could  not  at  all 
comprehend  why  there  were  tears  in  my  eyes. 


BOYHOOD.  135 


CHAPTER  VI. 

MASCHA. 

But  not  one  of  the  changes  which  took  place  in  my  views 
of  things  was  so  surprising  to  me  m3^self,  as  that  in  con- 
sequence of  which  1  ceased  to  regard  one  of  our  maids  as 
a  servant  of  the  female  sex,  and  began  to  regard  her  as  a 
woman,  on  whom  my  peace  and  happiness  might,  in  some 
degree,  depend. 

From  the  time  when  I  can  remember  any  thing,  I  recall 
Mascha  in  onr  house  ;  and  never,  until  tlie  occasion  which 
altered  my  view  of  her  completely,  and  which  I  will  relate 
presently,  did  I  pay  the  slightest  attention  to  her.  Masolia 
was  twenty-five  when  I  was  fourteen  ;  she  was  very  pretty. 
But  I  am  afraid  to  describe  her.  I  fear  lest  my  fancy  should 
again  present  to  me  the  enchanting  and  deceitful  picture 
which  existed  in  it  during  the  period  of  my  passion  for  her. 
In  order  to  make  no  mistake,  I  will  merely  say,  that  she  was 
remarkabh"  white,  luxuriantly  developed,  and  was  a  woman  ; 
and  I  was  fourteen  years  old. 

At  one  of  those  moments  Avhen,  with  lesson  in  hand,  you 
busy  yourself  with  a  promenade  up  and  down  the  room,  en- 
deavoring to  step  only  on  one  crack  in  the  floor,  or  with  the 
singing  of  some  incoherent  air,  or  the  smearing  of  the  edge 
of  the  table  with  ink,  or  the  repetition,  without  the  applica- 
tion of  any  thought,  of  some  phrase,  —  in  a  word,  at  one  of 
those  moments  when  the  mind  refuses  to  act,  and  the  ima- 
gination, assuming  the  upper  hand,  seeks  an  impression,  —  I 
■  stepped  out  of  the  schoolroom,  and  went  down  to  the  land- 
ing, without  any  object  whatever. 

Some  one  in  slippers  was  ascending  the  next  turn  of  the 
stairs.  Of  course  I  wanted  to  know  who  it  was  ;  but  the 
sound  of  the  footsteps  suddenly  ceased,  and  1  heard  Mas- 
cha's  voice  : 

'^  Now,  what  ai-e  you  playing  pranks  for?  Will  it  be  well 
when  Marva  Ivanovna  ctmjs?  " 


136  BOY  П  GOD. 

"She  won't  come,"  said  Volodya's  voice  in  a  whisper, 
and  then  there  was  some  movement,  as  if  Volodya  had  at- 
tempted to  detain  her. 

"Now  what  are  you  doiug  with  your  hands?  3'ou  shame- 
less fellow !  "  and  Mtischa  ran  past  me  with  her  necker- 
chief pushed  to  one  side,  so  that  her  plump  white  neck  was 
visible  beneath  it. 

I  cannot  express  the  degree  of  amazement  which  this  dis- 
cover}^ caused  me  ;  but  the  feeling  of  amazement  soon  gave 
way  to  sympathy  with  Volodya's  caper.  AVhat  surprised  me 
was  not  his  behavior,  but  how  he  had  got  at  the  idea  tluit 
it  was  pleasant  to  behave  so.  And  involuntarily  I  began  to 
want  to  imitate  him. 

I  sometimes  spent  whole  hours  on  that  landing,  without 
a  single  thought,  listening  with  strained  attention  to  the 
slightest  movement  which  proceeded  from  аЬол^е ;  but  I 
never  could  force  myself  to  imitate  Volodya,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  wanted  to  do  it  more  than  any  thing  else  in  the 
world.  Sometimes,  having  concealed  myself  behind  a  door, 
I  Listened  with  envy  and  jealousy  to  the  commotion  which 
arose  in  the  maids'  room,  and  the  thought  occurred  to  me, 
AVhat  would  be  my  position  if  I  were  to  go  up-stairs.  and, 
like  Volodya,  try  to  kiss  Mascha?  AVhat  should  I,  with  my 
broad  nose  and  flaunting  tuft  of  hair,  say  when  she  asked  me 
лvhat  I  wanted  ?  Sometimes  I  heard  Mascha  say  to  A^olodya, 
"  Take  that  to  punish  you  !  AA^hy  do  you  cling  to  me?  Go 
awa3%  you  scamp  !  AVhy  doesn't  Nikolai  Petrovitch  ever 
come  here  and  make  a  fool  of  himself?  "  She  did  not  know 
that  Nikolai  Petrovitch  was  at  that  moment  sitting  on  the 
stairs,  and  would  have  given  every  thing  in  the  world  in 
order  to  be  in  the  place  of  the  scamp  A'olodya. 

I  was  modest  by  nature,  but  my  modesty  was  further  in- 
creased by  the  conviction  of  my  own  ugliness.  And  1  am 
sure  that  nothing  has  such  a  decisive  influence  upon  a  man's 
course  as  his  personal  appearance,  and  not  so  much  his 
appearance  as  his  belief  in  its  attractiveness  or  unattrac- 
tiveness. 

I  was  too  egotistical  to  become  accustomed  to  my  position, 
and  consoled  inj-self ,  like  the  fox,  by  assuring  myself  that 
the  grapes  were  still  green  ;  that  is  to  say,  I  endeavored  to 
despise  all  the  pleasures  derived  from  the  pleasing  exterior 
which  A^olodj^a  eujojed  in  my  eyes,  and  whicli  I  envied  with 
all  my  soul,  and  I  strained  every  nerve  of  my  mind  and 
imagiuation  to  thul  solace  in  [)roud  solitude. 


BOYHOOD.  137 


CHAPTER  VII. 

SHOT. 

"  Mt  God,  powder!  "  screamed  Mimi,  panting  with  emo- 
tion. "What  are  you  doing?  Do  3'ou  want  to  bum  the 
house  down,  and  ruin  us  all?  "  ' 

And,  with  an  indeseriljable  expression  of  firmness,  Mimi 
commanded  all  to  retire,  walked  up  to  the  scattered  shot  with 
long  and  determined  strides,  and,  despising  the  danger  which 
might  result  from  a  premature  explosion,  she  began  to  stamp 
it  out  with  her  feet.  When,  in  her  opinion,  the  danger  was 
averted,  she  called  Mikhei,  and  ordered  him  to  fling  all  that 
jjowder  as  far  away  as  possible,  or,  what  was  better  still, 
into  the  Avater ;  and,  proudly  smoothing  her  cap,  she  betook 
herself  to  the  drawing-room.  "They  are  well  looked  after, 
there's  no  denying  that,"  she  grumbled. 

When  papa  came  from  the  wing,  and  we  accompanied  him 
to  grandmamma,  Mimi  was  already  seated  near  the  window 
in  her  room,  gazing  threateningly  at  tlie  door  with  a  certain 
mysteriously  official  expression.  She  held  something  envel- 
oped in  paper  in  her  hand.  I  guessed  that  it  was  the  shot, 
and  that  grandmamma  alread}'  knew  every  thing. 

In  grandmamma's  room  tliere  were,  besides  Mimi,  Gascha 
the  maid,  who,  as  was  evident  from  her  red  and  angry  face, 
was  л'сгу  much  put  out;  and  Dr.  Blumenthal,  a  small,  [юск- 
marked  man,  who  was  vainly  endeavoring  to  calm  Gascha  by 
making  mysterious  and  pacifying  signs  to  her  with  his  eyes 
and  head. 

Grandmamma  herself  was  sitting  rather  sideways,  and  lay- 
ing out  her  "  patience,"  the  Traveller.,  which  always  indicated 
an  extremely  unpropitious  frame  of  mind. 

"  How  do  you  feel  to-day,  mamma?  have  vou  sle[)t  well?  " 
said  papa,  as  he  respectfully  kissed  her  hand. 

"  Ver}'  well,  my  dear;  I  believe  3'ou  know  that  I  am 
always  well,"  replied  grandmamma  in  a  tone  which  seemed  to 


.138  BOYHOOD. 

indicate  that  papa's  question  was  as  misplaced  and  insulting 
as  it  could  be.  "  Well,  are  you  going  to  give  me  a  clean 
handkerchief?"  she  continued,  turning  to  Gascha. 

"■  1  have  given  it  to  you,"  replied  Gascha,  pointing  to  a 
cambric  handkei'chief,  as  white  as  snow,  which  lay  on  the 
arm  of  the  chair. 

''Take  away  that  dirty  thing,  and  give  me  a  clean  one, 
my  dear." 

Gascha  went  to  the  chiffonier,  pulled  out  a  drawer,  and 
slammed  it  in  again  with  such  force  that  all  the  glass  in  the 
room  rattled.  Grandmamma  glanced  round  with  a  threaten- 
ing look  at  all  of  us,  and  continued  to  watch  the  maid's  тол-е- 
ments  attentiveh'.  When  the  latter  gave  her  what  appeared 
to  me  to  be  the  same  handkerchief,  grandmamma  said : 

"  When  will  you  grind  my  snuff,  my  dear?  " 

"  AVhen  there's  lime,  I'll  do  it." 

"AVhat  did  you  say?" 

"I'll  do  it  to-day." 

"  If  3'Ou  don't  wish  to  serve  me,  my  dear,  you  might  have 
said  so  ;  I  would  have  discharged  you  long  ago." 

"•  If  you  discharge  me,  1  sha'n't  cr}',"  muttered  the  maid 
in  a  low  tone. 

At  that  moment  the  doctor  tried  to  wink  at  her  ;  but  she 
looked  at  him  with  so  much  anger  and  decision  that  he  im- 
mediately dropped  his  ез'ез,  and  busied  himself  Avith  his 
watch-key. 

"  You  see,  my  dear,"  said  grandmamma,  turning  to  papa, 
when  Gascha,  still  muttering,  had  left  the  room,  "  how  people 
speak  to  me  in  my  own  house." 

"  If  3'ou  will  permit  me,  mamma,  I  will  grind  your  snuff," 
said  papa,  who  was  evidently  very  much  embarrassed  by  this 
unexpected  behavior. 

"•  No,  I  thank  you  ;  she  is  impudent  because  she  knows 
that  no  one  but  herself  understands  how  to  grind  snuff  as  I 
like  it.  You  know,  m}'  dear,"  went  on  grandmamma,  after  a 
momentary  pause,  "  that  your  children  came  near  setting 
the  house  on  fire  to-day?  " 

Papa  gazed  at  grandmamma  with  respectful  curiosity. 

"This  is  what  they  play  with.  —  Show  him,"  she  said, 
turning  to  Mimi. 

Papa  took  the  shot  in  his  hand,  and  could  not  forbear  a 
smile. 

"  Why,  this  is  shot,  шатша,"  said  he;  "it's  not  at  all 
dangei'ous." 


вотпоои.  139 

"I  am  л-ery  much  obliged  to  you,  my  dear,  for  teaching 
me,  only  I'm  too  old." 

"•Nerves!  nerves,"  whispered  the  doctor. 

And  papa  immediately  turned  to  us. 

'*  Where  did  you  get  that?  aud  how  dare  you  play  pranks 
with  such  things?  " 

"Don't  ask  them  anything;  you  must  ask  their  dy- 
adka,"^  said  grandmamma,  pronouncing  the  word  dyadka 
with  particular  contempt,  •'  what  he  is  looking  after." 

''  Voldemar  said  that  Karl  Ivanitch  himself  gave  him  this 
powder,"  put  in  Mimi. 

"Now  you  see  what  he  is  good  for,"  continued  grand- 
mamma. "  And  where  is  he,  that  dyadka.,  what's  his  name? 
Send  him  here." 

"  I  gave  him  leave  to  go  out  and  make  a  visit,"  said  papa. 

"  There's  no  sense  in  that ;  he  ought  to  be  here  all  the  time. 
The  children  are  not  mine,  but  yours,  and  I  have  no  right  to 
advise  you,  because  you  are  wiser  than  I,"  pursued  grand- 
mamma ;  "  but  it  does  seem  as  though  it  were  time  to  engage 
a  tutor  for  them,  and  not  a  valet,  a  German  peasant, — yes,  a 
stupid  peasant,  who  can  teach  them  nothing  except  bad  man- 
ners and  T^'rolese  songs.  Is  it  extremely  necessary,  now, 
I  ask  you,  that  children  should  know  Ьолу  to  sing  Tyrolese 
songs  ?  Howe\'er,  nobody  thinks  of  this  now,  and  you  can  do 
as  you  please." 

The  word  "  now  "  meant  that  they  had  no  mother,  and 
called  up  sad  memories  in  grandmamma's  heart.  She 
dropped  her  eyes  on  her  snuff-box,  with  its  portrait,  and  be- 
came thoughtful. 

"I  have  long  been  meditating  that."  papa  hastened  to 
say,  "  and  I  wanted  to  advise  with  you,  mamma.  Shall  we 
not  inAdte  St.  Jerome,  who  is  now  giving  them  lessons  by 
the  day?" 

"  You  will  be  doing  extremely  well,  my  friend."  said 
grandmamma,  and  no  longer  in  the  dissatisfied  tone  in  which 
she  had  spoken  before.  "  St.  Jerome  is  at  least  a  tutor  who 
knows  how  children  of  good  famil}"  should  be  trained,  and 
not  a  paltr}-  valet,  who  is  good  for  nothing  but  to  take  them 
to  walk." 

"I  лvill  speak  with  him  to-morrow,"  said  papa. 

And,  in  fact,  two  days  after  this  conversation,  Karl  Ivan- 
itch  yielded  his  place  to  the  young  French  dandy. 

1  Val^j^ 


140  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

KARL    IVANITCH's    IIISTOUY. 

Late  on  the  eA^ening  which  preceded  the  day  which  Karl 
Ivanitch  Avas  to  leave  us  forever,  he  stood  beside  the  bed  in 
his  wadded  gown  and  red  cap,  bending  ол^ег  his  trunk,  and 
carefully  packing  his  effects. 

Karl  Ivanitch's  intercourse  with  us  had  been  peculiaily  dry 
of  late.  He  seemed  to  avoid  all  connection  with  us  ;  so  луЬеп 
I  now  entered  the  room,  he  glanced  askance  at  me,  and  went 
on  with  his  work.  I  lay  down  on  my  bed,  but  Karl  Ivanitch, 
■•who  had  in  former  times  strictly  prohibited  this,  said  nothing 
i^to  me  ;  and  the  thought  that  he  would  never  more  scold  us  or 
stop  us,  that  he  had  no  concern  with  us  now,  reminded  me 
vividly  of  the  approaching  separation.  I  was  soi'ry  that  he 
had  ceased  to  love  us,  and  w^anted  to  express  this  feeling  to 
him.  "  Let  me  he\\)  you,  Karl  Iv^anitch,"  I  said,  going  up 
to  him.  Karl  Ivanitch  glanced  at  me,  and  again  turned 
aside  ;  but  in  the  fleeting  look  which  he  cast  at  me,  I  read  not 
the  indifference  with  which  he  explained  his  coldness,  but 
genuine,  concentrated  grief. 

"  God  sees  all,  and  knows  all :  and  may  His  holy  will  he 
done  in  all  things  ! '  he  said,  drew  himself  up  to  ids  full  height, 
and  sighed  heavily.  "Yes,  Nikolinka,"  he  went  on,  per- 
ceiving the  expression  of  unfeigned  synn.iath}'  with  which  I 
regarded  him,  "  it  is  my  fate  to  be  unhappy  from  my  very 
infanc}"  to  my  coffin.  I  have  always  been  repaid  with  evil 
for  the  good  which  I  have  done  to  people  ;  and  my  reward  is 
not  here,  but  3'onder,"  he  said,  pointing  toward  heaven.  "If 
you  only  knew  my  history,  and  all  that  I  have  undergone  in 
this  life  !  1  have  been  a  shoemaker,  I  have  been  a  soldier, 
1  have  been  a  desert ei\  I  have  been  a  workman,  I  have  been 
a  teacher,  and  now  I  am  nothing  ;  and,  like  the  Son  of  God, 
I  have  nowhere  to  lay  my  liead,"  he  concluded,  and,  closing 
his  e\es,  he  tVU  into  a  cliair. 


BOYHOOD.  141 

Perceiving  that  Karl  Ivanitch  was  in  that  sensitive  state  of 
mind  in  which  he  uttered  his  dearest  thoughts  for  iiis  own  sat- 
isfaction, Avithont  heeding  the  Iiearer,  I  seated  myself  on  tlie 
bed  in  silence,  and  without  removing  ray  eyes  from  his  kind 
face. 

''  You  are  not  a  cliild,  you  can  understand.  I  will  tell  yon 
my  story,  and  all  that  1  have  endured  in  this  life.  Some 
day  you  will  recall  the  old  friend,  who  1олхч1  you  very  much, 
children." 

Karl  Ivanitch  leaned  his  elbow  on  the  talile  which  stood 
beside  him,  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  and,  rolling  his  eyes 
heavenward,  began  his  tale  in  that  peculiar,  measured, 
throat  voice,  in  which  he  usually  dictated  to  us. 

''/  was  ujihapjjy  even  before  I  toas  born,"'^  he  said  with 
great  feeling. 

As  Karl  Ivanitch  related  his  history  to  me  more  than  once 
afterwards,  in  exactly  the  same  terms,  and  always  with  the 
same  identical  intonations,  I  hope  to  be  al)le  to  reproduce  it 
almost  word  for  word,  the  faults  of  language,  of  course, 
excepted,  of  which  the  readei-  can  form  his  own  judgment 
from  the  first  sentence.  AVhether  it  really  was  his  history, 
or  a  production  of  the  imagination,  Avhich  had  had  its  l)irth 
during  his  loneh*  life  in  our  house,  or  whether  he  onl}'  colored 
the  real  events  of  his  life  with  fantastic  facts,  I  have  not 
been  able  to  decide  to  this  da}'.  On  the  one  hand,  he  related 
his  story  with  too  much  of  that  lively  feeling  and  method- 
ical sequence  which  constitute  the  chief  proofs  of  A^eracity, 
to  permit  one  to  doubt  it :  on  the  other  hand,  there  was  too 
much  poetic  beauty  about  his  history,  so  that  this  very 
beauty  evoked  doubts. 

"•In  my  veins  flows  the  noble  lilood  of  the  counts  of  Soni- 
m('rl)latt.  I  was  born  six  weeks  aft3r  tlie  marriage.  ^ly 
mother's  husltand  (I  called  him  papa)  was  a  fanner  under 
Count  Sommerblatt.  He  could  never  forget  my  mother's 
shame,  and  did  not  love  me.  I  had  a  little  brother  Johann 
and  two  sisters  ;  but  I  was  a  strangei*  in  the  midst  of  my 
own  family.  When  Johann  committed  any  follies,  papa  used 
to  say,  '  I  never  have  a  moment's  peace  with  that  child 
Karl !  '  and  then  I  was  scolded  and  punished.  When  my 
sisters  got  angry  with  each  other,  papa  said,  '  Karl  will 
never  be  an  obedient  bo}* !  '  and  I  was  scolded  and  punished. 

'  "  ГндГшк  rcrfohjte  viich  nc/ion  ha  Suhoosse  laeiiwr  Mutter."  'ГЬе  liuesiaii 
i:<  also  incorrect. 


142  воупооп. 

"  My  good  mammri  alone  loved  me  and  petted  me.  She 
often  said  to  me,  '  Karl,  come  here,  to  my  room,'  and 
then  she  kissed  me  on  tlie  sly.  '  Poor,  poor  Karl ! '  she  said, 
'  no  one  loves  you,  but  I  would  not  change  you  for  any  one. 
One  thing  з'оиг  mamma  begs  of  you,'  she  said  to  me : 
'  study  well,  and  always  be  an  honorable  man,  and  God  will 
not  desert  you.'  And  I  tried.  When  I  was  fourteen,  and 
could  go  to  communion,  mamma  said  to  papa,  '  Karl  is  a 
big  boy  now,  Gustav :  what  shall  we  do  with  him  ? '  And 
papa  said,  'I  don't  know.'  Then  mamma  said,  'Let  us 
send  him  to  Herr  Sehultz  in  the  town,  and  let  him  be  a 
shoemaker.'  And  papa  said,  '  Very  good.'  Six  years  and 
seven  months  I  lived  in  the  town,  with  the  master  shoemaker, 
and  the  master  loved  me.  He  said,  '  Karl  is  a  good  work- 
man, and  he  shall  soon  be  my  partner.'  But  man  proposes, 
and  God  disposes.  In  1796  a  conscription  was  appointed, 
and  all  who  could  serve,  from  eighteen  to  twentj^-one  з^еага 
of  age,  nuist  assemble  in  the  town. 

"  Papa  and  brother  Johanu  came  to  town,  and  we  went 
together  to  di'aw  lots  to  see  who  should  be  and  who  should 
not  be  a  soldier.  Johann  drew  a  bad  number :  he  must , 
become  a  soldic-r.  I  drew  a  good  number  :  1  was  not  obliged 
to  become  a  soldier.  And  papa  said,  '  I  had  one  son,  and  I 
must  part  Mith  him.' 

"  I  took  his  hand,  and  said,  '  Why  did  you  say  that,  papa? 
Come  with  me,  I  will  tell  you  something.'  And  papa  went. 
Papa  went,  and  we  seated  ourselves  at  a  little  table.  '  Give 
Lis  a  couple  of  jugs  of  beer,'  I  said,  and  they  were  brought. 
We  drank  them  glass  for  glass,  and  brother  Johann  drank 
also. 

"'Papa,'  I  said,  '  do  not  say  that  you  had  one  son,  and 
Vou  must  part  with  him.  My  heart  wants  to  leaj}  nut  when 
[  hear  that.  Brother  Johann  shall  not  serve  :  I  will  be  a  sol- 
dier.    No  one  needs  Karl  here,  and  Kai'l  will  be  a  soldier.' 

'"You  are  an  honest  man,  Karl  Ivanitch,'  said  papa  to 
me,  and  he  kissed  me. 

"And  1  became  a  soldier. 


BOYHOOD.  143 


CHAPTER  IX. 

COKTmUATION   OP   THE    PRECEDING. 

"That  was  a  terrible  time,  Nikolinka,"  continued  Karl 
Ivaniteh.  "  Napoleon  was  alive  then.  He  wanted  to  con- 
quer German}^  and  we  defended  our  fatherland  to  the  last 
drop  of  blood ! 

"  I  was  at  Ulm,  I  was  at  Austerlitz,  I  was  at  Wagrain." 

"Did  you  fight  too?"  I  asked,  gazing  at  him  in  amaze- 
ment.    "Did  \o\\  also  kill  people  ?  " 

Karl  Ivaniteh  immediately  relieved  my  mind  on  that  score. 

"  Once  a  French  grenadier  lingered  behind  his  comrades, 
and  fell  by  the  way.  I  ran  up  with  my  gun,  and  was  about 
to  transfix  him  ;  but  the  Frenchman  threw  away  his  weapons, 
and  begged  for  mercy,  and  I  let  him  go. 

"  At  Wagram,  Napoleon  chased  us  to  the  islands,  and  sur- 
rounded us  so  that  there  was  no  safety  anywhere.  For  three 
days  we  had  no  provisions,  and  we  stood  in  the  water  up  to 
our  knees. 

"The  miscreant  Napoleon  would  neither  take  us  nor  leave 
us. 

"  On  the  fourth  daj',  thank  God,  we  were  taken  prisonei's, 
and  led  off  to  the  fortress.  I  had  on  l)lue  trousers,  a  unifoi-ni 
of  good  cloth,  fifteen  thalers  in  money,  and  a  silver  watch, 
the  gift  of  my  papa.  A  French  soldier  took  all  from  me. 
Fortunately,  I  had  three  ducats  left,  which  mamma  had 
sewed  into  \n\  doublet.      Nobody  found  them. 

"  I  did  not  wish  to  remain  long  in  the  fortress,  and  de- 
cided to  run  away.  Once  on  a  great  festival  day,  I  told  the 
sergeant  who  looked  after  us,  '  Herr  sergeant,  this  is  a 
solemn  festiA^il,  and  I  want  to  obscn've  it.  Please  fetch  two 
bottles  of  Madeira,  and  we  will  drink  them  together.'  And 
the  sergeant  said,  '  Very  good.'  When  the  sergeant  l)rought 
the  Madi'ira,  and  we  had  drank  it  in  a  wineglass,  turn  and 
turn  about,  1  took   him   by  the  hand,  and  said,  '  Herr  «er- 


144  nor  lino  J). 

gcant,  do  you  happen  to  have  a  father  and  mother?'  lie 
said,  '  Yes,  Herr  Mauer.'  —  ■  My  fatlier  and  mother,'  said  I, 
'  have  not  seen  me  for  eight  3'ears,  and  do  not  linow  wliether 
I  am  alive  or  whellier  my  bones  are  lying  in  the  damp  earth. 

0  Herr  sergeant  I  I  have  two  ducats,  which  were  in  my 
doul)let:  take  tiiom,  and  let  me  go.  Be  my  benefactor,  and 
my  mamma  will  pray  to  Almighty  God  for  you  all  her  life.' 

'•'  The  sergeant  drank  a  glass  of  Madeira,  and  said,  '  Herr 
Mauer,  I  love  and  pity  3'on  extremely  ;  but  you  are  a  prisoner, 
and  I  am  a  soldier.'  1  pressed  his  hand,  and  said,  'Herr 
sergeant !  ' 

"And  the  sergeant  said,  'You  are  a  poor  man,  and  I  will 
not  take  your  money  ;  V)ut  I  will  help  you.  When  I  go  to 
bed,  bu}»^  a  Inicket  of  brandy  for  the  soldiers,  and  they  will 
sleep.     I  will  not  watch  3'ou.' 

"  He  w^as  a  good  man.  I  bought  the  bucket  of  brandy  ;  and 
when  the  soldiers  were  drunk,  1  put  on  my  boots  and  my  old 
cloak,  and  went  out  of  the  door.  I  went  to  the  wall,  with 
the  intention  of  jumping  ол^ег  ;  bnt  there  was  water  there,  and 

1  would  not  spoil  my  last  remaining  clothes.  I  went  to  the 
gate. 

"  The  sentry  was  marching  up  and  down  with  his  gun.■^  and 
he  looked  at  me.  'Qui  vive?'  he  said  for  the  first  time, 
and  J  made  no  answer.  'Qui  vive?'  said  he  the  second 
time,  and  1  made  no  answer.  'Qui  л'ive?'  he  said  for  the 
third  time,  and  I  ran  away.  I  sprang  irtto  the  icater, 
climbed  out  on  the  other  side,  and  took  my  dex)arture. 

"All  night  1  ran  along  the  road;  but  when  it  began  to 
dawn,  I  w^as  afraid  that  they  w^ould  recognize  me,  and  ,1  hid 
in  the  tall  rye.  Then  I  knelt,  folded  m}'  hands,  and  thanked 
our  heavenly  Father  for  saving  me,  and  fell  asleep  with  a 
tranquil  mind. 

"'l  woke  in  the  evening,  and  proceeded  farther.  All  at 
once,  a  great  German  wagon  with  two  black  horses  over- 
took me.  In  the  wagon  sat  a  handsomel}'  dressed  man, 
who  was  smoking  a  pipe,  and  looking  at  me.  I  walked 
slowl}-,  in  order  that  the  wagon  might  pass  me  ;  but  when  I' 
went  slowly,  the  wagon  went  more  slowh'  still,  and  the  man 
stared  at  me.  I  sat  down  by  the  roadside  ;  tlie  man  stopped 
his  horses,  and  looked  at  me.  '  Young  man,'  said  he, 
'whither    are   you   going    so    late?'     I  said,   'I  am  going 

'  K:\il  [vanitch's  language  is  an  extraordinary  mixture  of  bad  Russian  and  Ger- 
man, wbich  it  ia  irupoesible  to  reproduce  williout  much  tiresome  repetition. — Tr. 


BOYHOOD.  145 

to  Frankfort.'  —  '  Get  into  ni}-  wagon  ;  there's  room,  and 
I  will  take  30U  there.  Why  have  3'ou  nothing*  wuth  3'ou? 
why  is  your  beard  unshaved?  and  why  are  your  clothes 
muddy?'  he  said  to  me,  when  I  had  seated  myself  by  him. 
'  I  am  a  poor  man,'  I  said.  '  I  want  to  hire  out  somewhere 
as  a  workman  ;  and  my  clothes  are  muddy  because  I  fell 
down  in  the  road.'  —  '  You  are  telling  an  untruth,  young 
man,'  said  he  :  '  the  road  is  dry  now.' 

"And  I  remained  silent. 

"'Tell  me  the  whole  truth,'  said  the  good  man  to  me. 
'Who  are  you,  and  лу hence  come  you?  Your  face  pleases 
me,  and  if  you  are  an  honest  man  I  will  help  you.' 

"And  I  told  him  all.  He  said,  'Very  good,  young  man. 
Come  to  my  rope-factory.  I  Avill  give  you  work,  clothes,  and 
money,  and  you  shall  live  with  me.' 

"  And  I  said,  '  Very  well.' 

"  We  went  to  the  rope-factory,  and  the  good  man  said  to  his 
wife,  '  Here  is  a  young  man  who  has  fought  for  his  country, 
and  escaped  from  captivity  ;  he  has  neither  home,  clothes, 
nor  bread.  He  will  live  with  me.  Give  him  some  clean 
linen,  and  feed  him.' 

"  I  lived  at  the  rope-factory  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and 
my  master  became  so  fond  of  me  that  he  would  not  let  me 
go.  I  was  a  handsome  man  then  ;  I  was  3'ouug,  tall,  with 
blue  eyes,  and  a  Roman  nose  ;  and  Madame  L.  (I  cannot 
tell  her  name),  the  Avife  of  ray  master,  Avas  a  young  and 
pretty'  woman,  and  she  fell  in  love  with  me. 

"When  she  saw  me,  she  said,  '  ilerr  Mauer,  Avluvt  does 
your  mamma  call  3^u  ?  '     1  said,  '  Karlehen.' 

"  And  she  said,  '  Karlehen,  sit  here  beside  me.' 

"  I  seated  myself  beside  her,  and  she  said,  ■•  Karlehen,  kiss 
me  I 

"  I  kissed  her,  and  she  said,  '  Karlehen.  I  love  you  so,  that 
1  cannot  endure  it  any  longer,'  and  she  trembled  all  over." 

Here  Karl  Ivaiiitch  made  a  prolonged  i)!^4se  ;  and  rolling 
up  his  kind  blue  eyes,  he  rocked  hi«  head,  and  began  to 
smile,  as  people  do  when  under  the  influence  of  pleasant 
recollections. 

"Yes,"  he  began  again,  settling  himself  in  his  arm-chair, 
and  folding  his  dressing-gown  about  him.  "  I  have  been 
through  a  great  deal,  both  of  good  and  bad.  in  my  life  ;  but 
He  is  my  witness."  he  said,  pointing  to  a  figure  of  the  Sav- 
iour, worked  on  canvas,  'л1:1^11  Imng  over  his  ЬеЛ,  "  nobody 


146  BOYHOOD. 

can  say  that  Karl  Ivanitch  has  been  a  dishonorable  man  !  I 
would  not  repay  the  kindness  which  Herr  L.  had  shown  me, 
by  black  ingratitude  ;  and  I  resolved  to  run  awaiy  from  him. 
In  the  evening,  when  all  had  gone  to  bed,  I  wrote  a  letter  to 
my  master,  laid  it  on  the  table  in  my  room,  took  my  clothes 
and  three  thalers  in  money,  and  stepped  quietly  out  into  the 
street.     No  one  saw  me,  and  1  walked  along  the  road. 


BOYHOOD.  147 


CHAPTER  X. 

CONTINUATION. 

"I  HAD  not  seen  my  mamma  for  nine  years;  and  I  did 
not  know  whether  she  was  аИл'е,  or  whether  her  bones  were 
already  lying  in  the  damp  earth.  I  retnrned  to  my  father- 
land. AYhen  I  readied  the  town,  I  inquired  where  Gustav 
Mauer  lived,  who  had  l)een  farmer  to  Count  Sommerblatt ; 
and  they  told  me,  '  Count  Sommerblatt  is  dead  ;  and  Gus- 
tav Mauer  lives  in  the  high  street,  and  keeps  a  liquor-shop.' 
I  put  on  my  new  vest,  a  handsome  coat  (a  gift  of  the 
manufacturer),  brushed  mj'  hair  well,  and  went  to  my  papa's 
liquor-shop.  My  sister  Mariechen  лгаз  sitting  in  the  shop, 
and  inquired  what  1  лvanted.  I  said,  '  May  1  drink  a  glass 
of  liquor?'  and  she  said,  '  Father,  a  young  man  is  asking 
for  a  glass  of  liquor.'  And  papa  said,  'Give  the  young 
man  a  glass  of  liquor.'  I  sat  down  at  the  table,  drank 
my  glass  of  liquor,  smoked  my  pipe,  and  looked  at  papa, 
Mariechen,  and  Johann,  who  had  also  entered  the  shop. 
During  the  couA'ersation,  papa  said  to  me,  'You  probably 
know,  young  man,  where  our  army  stands  now?'  I  said, 
'•  1  have  come  from  the  army  myself,  and  it  is  near  Vienna.' 
— '  Our  son,'  said  papa,  '  was  a  soldier,  and  it  is  nine  j'ears 
since  he  has  written  to  us,  and  we  do  not  know  whether  j*?i 
he  is  alive  or  dead.  M}'  wife  is  always  weeping  for  him.' 
I  smoked  away  at  my  pipe,  and  said,  '  What  was  your  son's 
name,  and  Avhere  did  he  serve?  Perhaps  I  know  him.'  — 
'  He  was  called  Karl  Mauer,  and  he  served  in  the  Austrian 
Jilgers,'  said  papa.  '  He  was  a  tall,  handsome  man,  like 
you,'  said  sister  Mariechen. 

"'I  know  your  Karl,'  said  I.  '  Amalia !  '  cried  my 
father  suddenly,  '  come  here !  here  is  a  young  man  who 
knows  our  Karl.'  And  my  dear  mamma  comes  through  the 
rear  door.  I  immediatebi  recognize  her.  '  You  Jcnow  our 
Karl?'  she  said,  looked  at  me,  tamed  very  pale,  and  began 


148  вот  ODD. 

to  tremble!  'Yes,  I  have  seen  him,'  said  I,  and  did  not 
dare  to  lift  my  eyes  to  her  ;  my  heait  wanted  to  /cfj).  '  ]My 
Karl  is  alive!'  said  mamma,  -thank  God  I  Where  is  he, 
my  dear  Karl?  I  shonld  die  in  peace  if  I  could  see  him  once 
more,  my  beloved  son;  bnt  it  is  not  God's  will,'  and  she 
began  to  cr}'.  /  conld  not  bear  if.  '  Mamma,'  said  I,  •  I 
am  your  Karl,'  cnid  яЬе  fell  into  шц  arms." 

Karl  Ivanitch  closed  his  eyes,  and  his  lips  trembled. 

"  '  Mother,'  said  I,  '  I  am  your  son,  I  am  your  Karl.'  and 
she  fell  into  my  arms,"  he  repeated,  becoming  somewdiat 
calmer,  as  he  wiped  away  the  big  tears  winch  trickled  down 
his  cheeks. 

'•  But  it  was  not  God's  pleasni-e  that  I  should  end  my  days 
in  my  own  country.  I  was  destined  to  ill  luck.  Misfortune 
followed  me  everywhere.  I  lived  in  my  native  land  only 
three  months.  One  Snndny  I  was  in  a  coffee-house  buying  a 
jug  of  l)eer.  smoking  тл'  pipe,  and  talking  politics  with  my 
acquaintances,  and  about  the  Emperor  Franz,  about  Nai)0- 
leou  and  the  war,  and  each  one  was  expressing  his  opinion. 
Near  us  sat  a  strange  gentleman,  in  a  gray  overcoat,  who 
drank  his  coffee,  smoked  his  pipe,  and  said  nothing  to  us. 
When  the  night  watchman  cried  ten  o'clock,  I  took  my  hat, 
paid  my  reckoning,  and  went  home.  About  midnight  some 
one  knocked  at  the  door.  I  woke  .up  and  said,  '  Who's 
there?'  —  'Open!'  I  said,  'Tell  me  who  you  are,  and  I 
vi'ill  open.'  —  'Open  in  the  name  of  the  law!'  came  the 
answer  from  outside  the  door,  and  I  opened.  Two  soldiers 
with  guns  stood  at  the  door ;  and  the  strange  man  in  the 
gray  overcoat,  who  had  been  sitting  near  us  in  the  coffee- 
house, entered  the  room.  He  was  a  spy.  '  Come  Avith  me,' 
said  the  spy.  '  Ver}'  good,'  said  I.  1  put  on  my  boots  and 
trousers,  buckled  my  suspenders,  and  walked  about  the  room. 
I  was  raging  at  heart.  I  said,  'He  is  a  villain.'  AVhen  I 
reached  the  wall  where  my  sword  hung,  I  suddenly  seized  it, 
and  said,  '  You  are  a  spy:  defend  yourself!'  I  gave  him 
a  cut  on  the  right,  a  cut  on  the  left,  and  one  on  the  J;eud. 
The  spj/  fell!  I  seized  my  portmanteau  and  my  money,  and 
leaped  out  of  the  window.  1  got  to  Ems  ;  there  I  made  the 
acquaintance  of  General  Saziu.  He  took  a  fancj'  to  m?.  got 
a  passport  from  the  ambassador,  and  took  me  to  Russia  with 
him  to  teach  his  children.  When  General  Sazin  died,  your 
mamma  called  me  to  her.  *  Karl  Ivanitch,'  she  said,  '  Г 
give  my  children  into  3'our  charge  :  love  them,  nud    I    wiil 


BOYHOOD.  149 

never  discharge  j'ou ;  I  will  make  your  old  age  comfortable.' 
Now  she  is  dead,  and  all  is  forgotten.  After  twenty  years  of 
service  I  must  now  go  out  into  the  street,  in  my  old  age,  to 
seek  a  crust  of  dry  bread.  God  sees  it  and  knows  it.,  and 
His  holy  will  be  done:  only  I  am  sorry  for  you,  children!  " 
said  Karl  Ivauitch  in  conclusion,  drawing  me  to  him  by  the 
hand,  and  kissing  me  on  the  head. 


150  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

ONE. 

By  the  conclusion  of  the  year  of  mourning,  grandmamma 
had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  grief  which  had  pros- 
trated her,  and  began  to  receive  guests  now  and  then,  espe- 
cially children,  boys  and  girls  of  our  own  age. 

On  Liul)Otchka's  birthday,  the  13th  of   December,  Prin 
cess  Kornakova  and  her  daughters,  Madame  Valakhina  and 
Sonitchka,  llinka  Grap,  and  the  two  younger  Ivin  brothers, 
arrived  before  dinner. 

The  sounds  of  conversation,  laughter,  and  running  about 
ascended  to  us  from  below,  where  all  this  company  was  as- 
seml)led  ;  but  we  could  not  join  them  until  our  morning  lessons 
were  finished.  On  the  calendar  which  was  suspended  in  the 
schoolroom  was  inscribed:  "Monday,  from  2  to  3,  teaclier 
of  history  and  geography' ;  "  and  it  was  that  master  of  history 
whom  we  were  obliged  to  wait  for,  listen  to,  and  get  rid  of, 
before  we  should  be  free.  It  was  twenty  minutes  past  two, 
but  nothing  had  yet  been  heard  of  the  teacher  of  history ;  he 
was  not  even  to  be  seen  in  the  street  which  he  nuist  traverse, 
and  which  I  was  inspecting  with  a  strong  desire  of  never 
beholding  him. 

>  "•  Lebedeff  does  not  appej^r  to  be  coming  to-day,"  said 
Volodya,  tearing  himself  for  a  moment  from  Smaragdoff 's 
book,  in  Avhich  he  was  preparing  his  lesson. 

"  God  grant,  God  grant  he  may  not !  but  I  know  nothing. 
But  he  seems  to  be  coming  yonder,"  I  added  in  a  sorrowful 
voice.  V'    •  •  r,  к 

Volodya  rose,  and  came  to  the  window. 

"No,  that  is  not  he;  it  is  some  (fentleman,"  said  he. 
"  Let's  w^ait  until  lialf- past  two,"  he  added,  stretching  him- 
self and  scrateliing  liis  head,  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  doing 
in  moments  of  respite  from  work;  "if  he  lias  not  come  by 
half-past  two,  then  we  can  tell  8t.  Jerome  to  take  away  the 
uote-books." 


BOYHOOD.  151 

"I  don't  see  what  he  wants  to  co-o-o-me  for,"  I  said, 
stretching  also,  and  shaking  Kaidauoff's  book,  which  I  held 
in  both  hands,  above  my  head. 

For  lack  of  something  to  do,  I  opened  the  book  at  the 
place  where  our  lesson  was  appointed,  and  began  to  read. 
The  lesson  was  long  and  difficult.  I  knew  nothing  about  it, 
and  I  perceived  tliat  I  should  not  succeed  in  remembering 
any  thing  about  it,  the  more  so  as  I  was  in  that  state  of 
nervous  excitement  in  which  one's  thoughts  refuse  to  cou- 
centrate  themselves  on  any  subject  whatever. 

After  the  last  history  lesson,  which  alwa^'s  seemed  to  me 
the  very  stupidest,  on  the  most  wearisome  of  all  subjects, 
Lebedeff  had  complained  to  St.  Jerome  about  me  ;  and  two 
marks  were  placed  against  me  in  the  books,  which  was  con- 
sidered very  bad.  8t.  Jerome  told  me  then,  that,  if  I  got 
less  than  three  at  the  next  lesson,  I  should  be  severely 
punished.  Now  this  next  lesson  was  imminent,  and  I  con- 
fess that  I  felt  very  much  of  a  coward. 

I  was  so  carried  away  with  the  perusal  of  the  lesson  which 
I  did  not  know,  that  the  somid  of  galoshes  being  removed  in 
the  ante-room  startled  me  all  at  once.  I  had  hardly  had  time 
to  cast  a  glance  in  that  direction,  when  the  pock-marked  face 
Avhich  was  so  anti[)athetic  to  me,  and  the  awkward,  far  too 
well  known  figure  of  the  teacher,  in  its  blue  coat  closely  fas- 
tened with  learned  buttons,  made  their  appearance  in  the 
doorway. 

The  teacher  slowly  deposited  his  hat  on  the  window,  his 
note-books  on  the  table,  pulled  aside  the  tails  of  his  swallow- 
tailed  coat  (as  though  it  were  very  important),  and  seated 
himself,  panting,  in  his  place. 

''  Now,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  rubbing  one  perspiring  hand 
over  the  other:  "let  us  first  review  Avhat  was  said  at  the 
last  lesson,  and  then  1  will  endeavor  to  acquaint  3'ou  with 
succeeding  events  of  the  Middle  Ages." 

That  meant :   Say  your  lesson. 

At  the  moment  when  Volod^'a  was  answering  him  Avith 
the  freedom  and  confidence  peculiar  to  a  person  who  is 
thoronghl}'  acquainted  with  his  subject,  I  went  out  on  the 
stairs,  without  any  object  whatever;  and,  snice  it  was  im- 
possible for  me  to  go  down,  it  was  very  natural  that  1  should 
find  myself,  quite  unexpectedly  to  myself,  on  the  landing. 
But  just  as  I  was  about  to  install  myself  in  my  custonuiry 
post  of  observation,  behind  a  door,  Mimi,  wlio  had  always 


152  BOYHOOD. 

been  the  cause  of  m}'  misfortunes,  suddenly  ran  against  me. 
"You  here?"  said  she,  looking  threateningly  at  me,  then 
at  the  door  of  the  maids'  room,  and  then  at  me  again. 

I  felt  thorough!}'  guilty,  both  because  I  was  not  in  tlie 
schoolroom,  and  because  I  was  in  a  place  where  I  had  no 
business  to  be.  So  I  held  my  tongue,  and,  hanging  m}'  head, 
exhibited  in  my  person  the  most  touching  expression  of 
penitence.  "Well,  who  ever  saw  the  like!"  said  Mimi. 
"  \Vhat  have  3'ou  been  doing  here?"  I  remained  silent. 
"No,  things  shall  not  be  left  in  this  state,"  she  repeated, 
rapping  her  knuckles  against  the  stair-railings :  "I  shall  tell 
the  Countess  all  about  it." 

It  was  already  tive  minutes  to  three,  when  I  returned  to 
the  schoolroom.  The  teacher  was  explaining  the  following 
lesson  to  Volodya,  as  though  he  had  remarked  neither  my 
absence  nor  my  presence.  When  he  had  finished  his  expo- 
sition, he  began  to  put  his  note-books  together,  and  \"olodya 
went  into  the  other  room  to  fetch  the  lesson-ticket ;  and  the 
cheering  tliought  occurred  to  me,  that  all  was  over,  and  that 
I  had  been  forgotten. 

But  all  at  once  the  teacher  turned  to  me  with  a  malicious 
half  smile. 

"I  hope  3'ou  have  learned  your  lesson,  sir,"  he  said,  rub- 
bing his  hands. 

"  I  have  learned  it,  sir,"  I  answered. 

"  Ti'y  to  tell  me  something  al)out  St.  Louis's  crusade," 
said  he,  shiftiug  about  in  his  chair,  and  gazing  thouglitfuUy 
at  his  feet.  "  You  may  tell  me  first  the  causes  which  induced 
the  French  King  to  take  the  cross,"  said  he,  raising  his 
brows,  and  pointing  his  finger  at  the  ink-bottle.  "  Then  you 
may  explain  to  me  the  general  and  characteristic  traits  of 
that  expedition,"  he  added,  m.aking  a  movement  with  his 
wrist,  as  though  endeavoring  to  catch  something.  "And, 
finally,  the  influence  of  this  crusade  upon  European  sove- 
reignty^ in  general,"  said  he,  striking  the  left  side  of  the  table 
with  his  note-books.  "  And  upon  the  French  monarchy  in 
particular,"  he  concluded,  striking  the  right  side  of  the  table, 
and  inclining  his  head  to  the  right. 

I  gulped  down  my  spittle  a  few  times,  coughed,  bent  my 
head  on  one  side,  and  remained  silent.  Then  seizing  a  pen, 
wliieh  la}'  upon  the  table,  I  began  to  pluck  it  to  pieces,  still 
maintaining  m}'  silence. 

"  Permit  me  to  take  that  pen,"  said  the  teacher,  extending 
his  hand  ;   "  it  is  good  for  something.     No»v,  sir  !  " 


BOYHOOD.  153 

"  Lon  —  King — St.  Louis  —  was  —  was — was  —  a  good 
and  wise  emperor." 

''What,  sir?" 

"An  emperor.  He  conceived  the  idea  of  going  to  Jeru- 
salem, and  transferred  the  reins  of  government  to  his  mother." 

•"  What  was  lier  name?  " 

"B  — B  — lauka." 

"What,  sir?  Bulanka?"! 

I  laughed  rather  awkwardly,  and  with  constraint. 

"Well,  sir,  do  j'ou  know  any  thing  else?"  he  said  sar- 
castically. 

There  was  nothing  for  me  to  lose,  so  I  coughed,  and  began 
to  utter  whatever  lies  came  into  mj'  head.  The  teacher,  лл1ю 
sat  silently  flicking  the  dust  from  the  table,  with  the  quill 
pen  which  he  had  taken  awa}^  from  me,  gazed  straight  past 
my  ear,  and  repeated,  "  Good,  very  good,  sir."  I  Avas  con- 
scious that  I  knew  nothing,  that  I  was  not  expressing  myself 
at  all  as  I  should ;  and  it  pained  me  frightfully  to  see  that 
the  teacher  did  not  stop  me,  or  correct  me. 

"  Why  did  he  conceive  the  idea  of  going  to  Jerusalem?" 
said  he,  repeating  my  words. 

"  Because  — for  the  reason  —  for  the  purpose,  because  "  — 
I  stopped  short,  uttered  not  another  word,  and  felt  that  if 
that  villanous  teacher  were  to  hold  his  tongue  for  a  whole 
year,  and  gaze  inquiringly  at  me,  I  should  not  be  in  a  con- 
dition to  emit  another  sound.  The  teacher  stared  at  me  for 
three  minutes  ;  then  an  exi^ression  of  deep  sorrow  appeared 
on  his  face,  and  he  said  to  Volod3'a,  who  had  just  entered 
the  room,  in  a  feeling  tone  : 

"  Please  hand  me  the  record-book." 

Volodya  gave  him  the  book,  and  carefully  laid  the  ticket 
beside  it. 

The  teacher  opened  the  book,  and,  cautiously  dipping  his 
pen,  he  put  down  five,  iu  his  beautiful  hand,  for  ^'olodз'a, 
under  the  head  of  recitations  and  behavior.  Then  ho 
stopped  his  pen  over  the  column  in  which  my  delinquencies 
were  inscribed,  looked  at  me,  flirted  oft"  the  ink,  and  |)ondered. 

All  at  once  his  hand  made  an  almost  impercei)til)le  move- 
ment,  and  there  appeared  a  handsomely  shaped  one  and  a 
period  ;  another  movement,  and  in  the  conduct  column  stood 
another  one  and  a  dot. 

Carefully  closing  the   record-book,  the  teacher  rose   and 

*  Name  for  a  creara-coloied  horse. 


154  nOYUOOD. 

went  to  the  door,  as  though  he  did  not  perceive  my  glance, 
in  which  despair,  entreat}-,  and  reproach  were  expressed. 

"Mikhail  llarionovitch,"  said  1, 

"No,"  said  he,  understanding  at  once  what  I  w'anted  to 
say  to  him  ;  "  it's  impossible  to  teach  in  that  way.  I  won't 
receive  money  for  nothing." 

The  teacher  put  on  his  galoshes  and  his  camelot  cloak,  and 
knotted  his  scarf  with  great  care.  As  if  any  one  could  care 
for  any  thing  after  what  had  happened  to  me  !  A  moA'ement 
of  the  pen  for  him,  but  the  greatest  misfortune  for  me. 

"  Is  the  lesson  ended?  "  inquired  .St.  Jerome,  entering  the 
room. 

"Yes." 

"  Was  your  teacher  satisfied  with  3'ou?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Volodya. 

"  How  many  did  you  get?  " 

"Five." 

"And  Nicholas?" 

I  said  nothing. 

"  Four,  apparently,"  said  Volodya. 

He  knew  that  it  was  neeessar}^  to  зал'е  me,  if  only  for 
that  da}'.  If  I  were  to  be  punished,  let  it  not  be  to-day, 
when  there  were  guests  in  the  house. 

"  Let  us  see,  gentlemen  [St.  Jerome  had  a  way  of  saying 
"let  us  see"  (voyons)  at  every  other  word],  make  your  toi- 
lets, and  we  will  go  down-stairs." 


BOYHOOD.  155 


CHAPTER  XII. 


THE    LITTLE    KEY, 


We  had  barcll}'  got  down-stairs  and  exchanged  salutations 
with  all  the  guests,  when  we  were  summoned  to  the  table. 
Papa  was  very  gay  (he  was  winning  money  just  then),  pre- 
sented Liubotchka  with  a  handsome  silver  serA'ice,  and,  after 
dinner,  remembered  that  he  had  also  a  bonbon  box  in  his 
wing  for  the  birthday  girl. 

'•There's  no  use  in  sending  a  man;  better  go  j'ourself, 
Koko,"  he  said  to  me.  ''The  keys  are  lying  on  tlie  large 
table,  in  the  shell,  you  know.  Take  them,  and  with  the  л'егу 
largest  key,  open  the  second  drawer  on  the  right.  There  you 
will  find  the  box  and  some  bonbons  in  a  paper ;  and  you  are 
to  bring  them  all  here." 

"And  shall  I  bring  you  some  cigars?"  I  asked,  knowing 
that  he  always  sent  for  them  after  dinner. 

"Bring  them,  but  see  that  you  don't  touch  anything  in 
my  rooms,"  he  called  after  me. 

I  found  the  keys  in  the  place  designated,  and  was  about  to 
open  the  drawer,  when  I  was  stopped  b}"  a  desire  to  know 
what  a  very  small  key,  which  hung  on  the  same  bunch,  opened. 

On  the  table,  amid  a  thousand  varied  objects,  and  near  the 
railing,  lay  an  embroidered  portfolio,  with  a  padlock  ;  and  I 
took  a  fancy  to  try  whether  the  little  ke}^  would  lit  it.  My 
experiment  was  crowned  with  complete  success  ;  the  portfolio 
opened,  and  in  it  I  found  a  whole  iieap  of  jiapers.  A  feeling 
of  curiosity  counselled  me  with  such  conviction  to  find  out 
what  those  pa[)ers  were,  that  I  did  not  succeed  in  hearkening 
to  the  voice  of  conscience,  and  set  to  woi'k  to  examine  what 
was  in  the  portfolio. 

The  childish  sentiment  of  unquestioning  respect  towards 
all  my  elders,  and  especially  towards  papa,  was  so  strong 
within  me,  that  my  mind  involuntarily  refused  to  draw  any 


156  BOYHOOD. 

conclusions  whatCA'er  from  what  I  saw.  I  felt  that  papa 
must  live  in  a  totally  different  sphere,  which  was  very  beau- 
tiful, unattainable,  and  incomprehensible  to  me,  and  that  to 
attempt  to  penetrate  the  secrets  of  his  life,  would  be  some- 
thing in  the  nature  of  sacrilege  on  my  part. 

Therefore  the  discovery  which  I  had  almost  unconsciously 
made  in  papa's  portfolio,  left  in  me  no  clear  conception, 
except  a  dim  knowledge  that  I  had  behaved  badly.  I  was 
ashamed  and  uncomfortable. 

Under  the  influence  of  this  feeling,  I  desired  to  close  the 
portfolio  as  speedily  as  possible,  but  I  was  evidently  fated  to 
endure  every  possible  kind  of  misfortune  upon  that  memor- 
able day.  Placing  the  key  in  the  keyhole  of  the  padlock,  I 
turned  it  the  other  way  ;  supposing  that  the  lock  was  closed, 
I  pulled  out  the  key,  and  —  oh,  horror!  the  head  of  the  key 
only  remained  in  my  hand.  In  vain  did  I  endeaA'or  to  unite  it 
with  the  half  in  the  lock,  and  release  it  by  means  of  some 
magic.  I  was  forced  at  length  to  accustom  myself  to  the 
frightful  thought,  that  I  had  committed  a  fresh  crime,  which 
must  be  discovered  this  very  day,  when  papa  returned  to  his 
study. 

Mimi's  complaint,  the  one  mark,  and  that  little  key ! 
Nothing  worse  could  have  happened.  Grandmamma  on  ac- 
count of  Mimi's  complaint,  St.  Jerome  about  the  one  mark, 
papa,  about  that  ke}' ;  and  all  these  would  overwhelm  me,  and 
not  later  than  that  very  evening. 

"  AVhat  will  become  of  me  ?  Oh,  what  have  I  clone?"  I 
said  aloud,  as  I  paced  the  soft  carpet  of  the  study.  "Eh," 
I  said  to  myself,  as  I  got  the  bonbons  and  cigars,  ^^  what 
will  be,  will  be,"  and  I  ran  into  the  house. 

This  fatalistic  adage,  which  I  had  heard  from  Nikolai  in 
my  cliildhood,  produced  a  beneficial  and  temporarily  sooth- 
ing effect  upon  me  at  all  difficult  crises  in  my  life.  ЛУЬеп 
I  entered  the  hall,  I  was  in  a  somewhat  excited  and  un- 
natural but  extremely  merry  mood. 


BOYHOOD.  157 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE   TRAITRESS. 

After  dinner,  games  began,  and  I  took  the  most  lively 
interest  in  them.  While  playing  at  cat  and  inouse^  I  awk- 
wardh'  ran  against  the  Kornakoff's  governess,  who  was  play- 
ing with  us,  stepped  on  her  dress  unintentionally,  and  tore  it. 
Perceiving  that  it  afforded  all  the  girls,  and  Souitchka  in 
particular,  great  satisfaction  to  see  the  governess  retire  with 
a  perturbed  countenance,  to  the  maids'  room,  to  mend  her 
dress,  I  resolved  to  procure  them  that  pleasure  once  more. 
In  consequence  of  this  amiable  intention,  the  governess  had 
no  sooner  returned  to  the  room,  than  I  began  to  gallop  round 
her,  and  I  kept  up  this  evolution  until  I  found  a  favorable 
opportunity  to  catch  my  heel  once  more  in  her  skirt,  and  tear 
it.  Sonitchka  and  the  Princesses  could  hardly  restrain  their 
laughter,  which  flattered  my  vanity  very  agreeably  ;  but  St. 
Jerome,  who  must  have  been  observing  my  pranks,  came  up 
to  me,  and  said  with  a  frown  (whicli  1  could  not  endure)  tlmt 
I  evidently  was  not  merry  in  a  good  way,  and  that  if  I  were 
not  more  discreet  he  would  make  me  repent  of  it,  ^even 
though  it  was  a  festive  day. 

liut  I  was  in  the  state  of  excitement  of  a  man  who  has 
gambled  away  more  tli^.u  he  has  in  his  pocket,  and  who  fears 
to  reckon  up  his  accounts,  and  continues  to  bet  on  desperate 
cards  witliout  any  hoi)e  of  redeeming  himself,  and  only  for 
the  purpose  of  not  giving  himself  lime  to  think.  I  smiled 
iminidently,  and  walked  away  from  him. 

After  the  game  of  "  cat  and  mouse,"  some  one  started  a 
game  which  we  called  Long  Nose.  The  [Лау  consisted  in 
placing  two  rows  of  chairs  opposite  each  other;  then  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  divided  into  two  parties,  each  choosing 
another  in  turn. 

The  youngest  Princess  chose  the  smallest  Ivin  every  time  ; 

1  I'use  in  the  corner. 


158  BOYHOOD. 

Katenka  chose  either  \^olodya  or  Iliiika ;  Sonitehka  took  Se- 
rozha  every  time,  and  was  not  at  all  abashed,  to  my  ex- 
treme amazement,  when  Serozha  went  and  seated  himself 
directly  opposite  her.  She  laughed  with  her  pretty,  ringing 
laugh,  and  made  him  a  sign  with  her  head,  to  show  that 
she  understood.  I  comprehended,  to  the  great  injury  of  my 
vanity,  that  I  was  superfluous,  left  out ;  that  they  must  say 
of  me  every  time,  "  1ГДо  remains  yet?  Jes,  NikoUnka: 
icell,  ive'll  t(fke  him.'' 

AVhen,  therefore,  it  came  my  turn  to  step  forward,  I  went 
boldly  up  either  to  my  sister  or  to  one  of  the  ugly  Prin- 
cesses, and,  unfortunately,  never  made  a  mistake.  And  So- 
nitehka seemed  so  absorbed  in  Serozha  Iviu,  that  1  did  not 
exist  for  her.  I  do  not  know  on  what  grounds  I  mentally 
called  her  a  traitress.,  since  she  had  never  given  me  a  prom- 
ise to  choose  me,  and  not  Serozha ;  but  1  was  firmly  con- 
vinced that  she  had  behaved  in  the  most  revolting  manner. 

After  the  game,  I  noticed  that  the  traitress.,  whom  I  de- 
spised, but  from  whom,  nevertheless,  I  could  not  take  my 
eyes,  had  retired  into  a  corner  with  Serozha  and  Katenka, 
where  they  were  discussing  something  in  a  mysterious  man- 
ner. Creeping  up  behind  the  piano,  in  order  to  discover 
their  secret,  1  saw  this  :  Katenka  was  holding  a  cambric 
handkerchief  by  two  of  its  corners,  thus  forming  a  screen 
between  Sonitchka's  head  and  Serozha's.  "  No,  you  have 
lost;  nov/ you  shall  pay!"  said  Serozha.  Sonitehka  stood 
before  him,  with  her  arms  hanging  beside  her,  as  if  guilt}', 
and  said,  blushing,  ''No,  I  have  not  lost;  have  I,  Mile. 
Catherine?  "  —  "I  love  the  truth,"  replied  Katenka  :  "you 
have  lost  your  bet,  my  dear." 

Katenka  had  hardly  uttered  these  words,  when  Serozha 
bent  over,  and  kissed  Sonitehka.  He  kissed  her  full  upon 
her  rosy  lips.  And  Sonitehka  laughed,  as  though  that  wei'e 
nothing,  as  though  it  were  very  amusing.  Horrible!!!  Oh 
the  sly  traitress! 


BOYHOOD.  159 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE   ECLIPSE. 

I  suDDEXLY  felt  a  contempt  for  the  entire  female  sex  in 
general,  and  for  Sonitchka  in  particular ;  I  began  to  assure 
myself,  that  there  was  nothing  jolty  about  these  games, 
that  the}'  were  only  fit  for  little  girls;  and  I  fdlt  very  much 
inclined  to  create  an  uproar,  to  do  some  manty  deed,  which 
would  astonish  them  all.  An  occasion  was  not  long  in  pre- 
senting itself. 

St.  Jerome,  after  talking  of  something  with  Mimi,  left  the 
room  ;  at  first,  his  footsteps  were  audible  on  the  stairs,  and 
then  above  us,  in  the  direction  of  the  schoolroom.  The 
thought  occurred  to  me.  that  Mimi  had  told  him  where  she  had 
seen  me  during  lesson  hours,  and  that  he  had  gone  to  inspect 
the  iournal.  At  that  time,  I  did  not  attribute  to  St.  Jerome 
any  other  object  in  life  than  a  desire  to  punish  me.  I  had 
read  somewhere,  that  children  from  twelve  to  fourteen  years 
of  age,  that  is  to  say,  those  who  are  in  the  transition  stage  of 
boyhood,  are  particularly  inclined  to  arson  and  murder. 
In  recalling  my  boyhood,  and  especialty  the  frame  of  mind 
in  which  I  was  on  that  unlucky  day,  I  very  clearly  appreciate 
the  importance  of  the  most  frightful  crime,  committed  with- 
out oliject  or  intent  to  injure,  but  from  curiosity,  to  meet  an 
uncons\?ious  need  for  activity.  There  are  moments  when  thtj 
future  presents  itself  to  a  man  in  such  sombre  colors,  that  he 
dreads  to  fix  his  mental  gaze  upon  it,  entirely  represses  the 
action  of  his  mind,  and  endeavors  to  convince  himself  tliat 
the  future  will  not  be,  and  that  the  past  has  not  been.  At 
such  rnoments,  when  thouglit  does  not  sit  in  judgment  be- 
fore every  decision  of  the  will,  and  the  fleshly  instincts  remain 
the  sole  spring  of  life,  I  can  understand  how  a  child  is  esjje- 
cially  inclined,  by  reason  of  his  inexperience,  to  set  and  light 
a  fire  under  the  very  house  in  which  his  brothers,  his  father 
and  his  mother,  whom  he  tenderly  loves,  are  sleeping,  with- 


160  BOYHOOD. 

out  the  slightest  hesitation  or  fear,  and  л^•ith  a  smile  of  cnri- 
osit}'.  Under  the  influence  of  this  temporary  absence  of 
reflection,  approaching  aberration  of  mind,  a  peasant  lad 
of  seventeen,  contemplating  the  freshly  shar[)ened  edge  of  an 
axe.  beside  the  bench  on  which  sleeps  his  aged  father,  face 
downward,  suddenly  flourishes  the  axe,  and  gazes  with  stu- 
pid curiosit}^  at  the  blood,  as  it  drips  from  the  seл'ered  neck 
on  the  bench ;  under  the  influence  of  the  same  absence  of  re- 
flection, and  instinctive  curiosity,  a  man  experieuces  a  certain 
enjoyment  in  pausing  upon  the  brink  of  a  precipice,  and 
thinking,  "What  if  I  should  throw  myself  down  there?  " 
Or,  placing  a  loaded  pistol  to  his  forehead,  he  thinks, 
"What  if  I  pull  the  trigger?"  Or  he  gazes  upon  some 
person  for  whom  society  universally  cherishes  a  peculiar  re- 
spect, and  thinks,  "  What  if  I  were  to  go  up  to  him,  take 
him  by  the  nose,  and  say,  '  Come,  my  dear  fellow,  shall  we 
go  ? '  " 

Under  the  influence  of  this  internal  excitement,  and  absence 
of  reflection,  when  St.  Jerome  came  down-stairs,  and  told  me 
that  I  had  no  right  to  be  there  that  evening,  because  I  had 
behaved  badl}'  and  studied  badly,  and  that  I  was  to  go  up- 
stairs at  once,  I  stuck  out  my  tongue  at  him,  and  said  that 
I  would  not  1еал'е  that  spot. 

For  a  moment,  St.  Jerome  could  not  utter  a  word  for  sur- 
prise and  anger. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  following  me  :  "  I  have  promised  to 
punish  3'ou  several  times  already,  and  your  grandmamma  has 
wanted  to  beg  j'ou  off ;  but  now  I  see  that  nothing  but  the 
rod  will  make  you  mind,  and  vou  have  fully  deserved  it 
to-day." 

He  said  this  so  loudly  that  сл'егу  one  heard  his  words.  The 
blood  retreated  to  my  heart  with  unusual  force.  I  felt  that 
it  was  beating  л-ioleutly,  that  the  color  fled  from  my  face, 
and  that  my  lips  trembled  quite  involuntarily.  I  must  Ьал'е 
looked  terrible  at  that  moment,  for  St.  Jerome,  aA'oiding 
my  glance,  walked  quickly  up  to  me,  and  seized  me  by  the 
hand;  but  I  no  sooner  felt  the  touch  of  his  hand,  than, 
beside  myself  with  rage,  I  tore  my  hand  away,  and  struck 
him  with  all  my  childish  strength. 

"What  is  tlie  matter  with  you?"  said  Volodya,  who  had 
seen  m.y  act  with  horror  and  amazement,  as  he  approached 
me. 

"  L 't  nie  alone!"   I  shrieked  ;it  him  through  my  tears: 


BOYHOOD.  161 

"  not  one  of  3'ou  lo\'es  me,  nor  understands  how  unhappy  I 
am.  You  are  all  hateful,  disgustiug,"  1  added,  turning  to 
the  whole  company  in  a  sort  of  fury. 

But  this  time  St.  Jerome  came  up  to  me  with  a  pale,  deter- 
mined face,  and  before  1  had  time  to  prepare  for  defence,  he 
grasped  both  my  hands  as  in  a  vise,  with  a  powerful  move- 
ment, and  dragged  me  awa}-.  My  head  was  whirling  with 
excitement.  I  only  rememl)er  that  1  fought  desperatel}'  with 
head  and  knees  as  long  as  1  had  any  strength  left.  I  remem- 
ber that  my  nose  came  in  contact  several  times  with  some 
one's  hips,  and  that  some  one's  coat  fell  into  my  mouth,  that 
I  was  conscious  of  the  presence  of  some  one's  feet  all  around 
me,  and  of  the  smell  of  dust,  and  of  the  violet  with  which 
St.  Jerome  perfumed  himself. 

Five  minutes  later,  the  garret  door  closed  behind  me. 

"  Basil !  "  said  he  in  a  revolting,  triumphant  voice  :  "  bring 
the  rod*." 


162  BOYUOOD. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

FANCIES. 

Could  I  at  that  time  suppose  that  I  should  remain  alive 
after  all  the  misfortunes  Avhich  came  upon  me.  and  that  the 
day  would  come  when  I  should  recall  them  Avith  composure? 

When  I  remembered  what  I  had  done,  I  could  not  imasrine 
what  would  become  of  me,  but  I  dimly  comprehended  that  I 
was  irretrievably  ruined. 

At  first,  absolute  silence  reigned  below  and  around  me.  or 
so  it  seemed  to  me  at  least,  because  of  ray  excessively 
powerful  inward  agitation  ;  but  gradually'  I  began  to  distin- 
guish the  different  sounds.  Vasili  came  down-stairs,  and, 
flinging  something  which  resembled  a  broom  on  the  Aviudow- 
ledge,  lay  down  on  the  chest  with  a  yawn.  Below,  August 
Antonitch's  huge  voice  was  audible  (he  must  have  been 
speaking  of  me),  then  childish  voices,  then  laughter  and 
runnnig  ;  and  then  a  few  minutes  later  ever}'  tlnng  in  the 
house  had  again  relapsed  into  its  former  moA^emeut,  as 
though  no  oue  knew  or  thought  of  me  sitting  in  the  dark 
garret. 

I  did  not  cry,  but  something  as  Ьеал'у  as  a  stone  lay  upon 
my  heart.  Thoughts  and  visions  passed  with  redoubled 
swiftness  before  my  disturbed  imagination  ;  but  the  memory 
of  the  misfortune  Avhicli  had  overtaken  me  incessantly  broke 
their  wondrous  chain,  and  1  again  traversed  an  endless  laby- 
rinth of  uncertaint}'  as  to  the  fate  which  awaited  me,  of 
terror  and  despair. 

Then  it  occurs  to  me.  that  there  must  exist  some  cause  for 
the  general  dislike  and  even  hatred  of  me.  (At  that  time  I 
was  firmly  couA-inced  that  ever^-body,  beginning  with  grand- 
mamma and  down  to  Philip  the  coachman,  hated  me,  and 
found  pleasure  in  ray  sufferings.) 

It  must  be  that  I  ara  not  the  son  of  my  father  and  mother, 
not  Volodya's  brother,  but  an  unliai)py  orphan,  a  foundling, 


BOYHOOD.  163 

adopted  out  of  charity,  I  say  to  myself  ;  and  thi»  absurd  idea 
not  only  affoixls  me  a  certain  melancholy  comfort,  but  even 
appears  extremely  probable.  It  pleases  me  to  think  that  I 
am  unhappy  not  because  I  am  myself  to  blame,  but  because 
such  has  been  my  fate  since  my  ver}'  birth,  and  that  my  lot  is 
similar  to  that  of  the  unfortunate  Karl  Ivauitch. 

"  But  why  conceal  this  secret  any  longer,  when  I  have 
myself  succeeded  in  penetrating  it?"  I  say  to  myself. 
"■  To-morrow  I  will  go  to  papa,  and  say  to  him,  '  Papa,  in  vain 
do  you  conceal  from  me  the  secret  of  my  birth  :  1  know  it,' 
He  will  say,  'What  is  to  be  done,  my  friend?  Sooner  or 
later  you  would  have  learned  it.  You  are  not  m}'  son  ;  but  I 
have  adopted  you,  and  if  you  will  prove  worthy  of  my  love, 
I  will  never  desert  \"ou.'  And  I  shall  say  to  him,  'Papa, 
although  I  have  no  right  to  call  you  by  that  name,  I  now 
utter  it  for  the  last  time.  I  have  always  loved  30U,  and  I 
shall  always  love  you,  and  I  shall  never  forget  that  you  are 
my  benefactor ;  but  I  can  no  longer  remain  in  з'оиг  house. 
No  one  here  loves  me,  and  St.  Jerome  has  sworn  my  ruin. 
Either  he  or  I  must  leave  your  house,  because  I  cannot 
answer  for  iBj'self .  I  hate  that  man  to  such  a  degree  that  I 
am  prepared  for  any  thing.  I  would  kill  him  as  readily  as  I 
say  :  Papa,  I  will  kill  him.'  Papa  will  begin  to  beseecli  me  ; 
but  I  shall  wave  my  hand,  and  say,  '  No,  ni}-  fi'iend,  my  bene- 
factor, we  cannot  live  together;  but  release  me.'  And  then 
I  will  embrace  him,  and  say  in  French,  '  О  my  father !  О  my 
benefactor!  give  me  thy  blessing  for  the  last  time,  and  nijay 
God's  will  be  done.'  "  And  as  1  sit  on  the  chest  in  the  dark 
storeroom,  I  weep  and  cry  at  the  thought.  But  all,  at  qnce 
1  remember  the  shameful  punishment  which  is  ,aw-aiting  me ; 
reality  presents  itself  to  me  in  its  true  light,  Sntl'Tuiy^fancies 
moiuentarily  take  flight. 

Then  I  fancy  myself  alread\'  at  liberty,  outside  our  house. 
I  enter  the  hussars,  and  go  to  the  war.  Enemies  bear 
down  upon  me  from  all  sides  ;  I  wave  my  sword,  and  kill  one  ; 
a  second  wave,  I  slay  another,  and  a  third.  Finall}',  ex- 
hausted by  wounds  and  fatigue,  I  fall  to  the  earth,  and  shout 
"  Victory  !  "  The  general  approaches,  and  asks,  "  Where  is 
he,  our  savior?  "  They  point  me  out  to  him  ;  he  flings  him- 
self on  my  neck,  and  shouts,  with  tears  of  joy,  "  Victory  !  " 
I  recover,  and  with  an  arm  bandaged  in  a  black  hantlker- 
chief  I  promenade  the  Tversky  boulevard.  I  am  a  general! 
But,  lo,  the  Emperor  meets  me,  and  incjuires,  "•  Who  is  this 


164  BOYHOOD. 

wounded  young  man?  "  He  is  told  that  it  is  the  renowned 
hero  Nikolai.  The  Emperor  comes  up  to  me,  and  says,  "  I 
thank  you.  I  will  do  any  thing  you  ask  of  me."  I  salute 
respectfully,  and  leaning  on  my  sword  I  say,  "  I  am  happy, 
great  P^raperor,  to  have  been  able  to  shed  my  blood  for  my 
fatherland,  and  I  wish  to  die  for  it;  but  if  you  will  be  so 
gracious,  then  permit  me  to  beg  one  thing  of  you,  —  permit 
me  to  annihilate  m}'  enemy,  the  foreigner,  8t.  Jerome.  I 
Avant  to  annihilate  ray  enemy,  St.  Jerome."  I  halt  threaten- 
ingly before  St.  Jerome,  and  say  to  him,  "  You  have  caused 
my  misfortune.  On  your  knees  !  "  But  suddenly  the  thought 
occurs  to  me,  that  the  real  St.  Jerome  may  enter  at  an^- 
moment  with  the  rods ;  and  again  I  see  m3'self ,  not  a 
general  serving  his  country,  but  a  very  pitiful,  weeping 
creature. 

The  thought  of  God  comes  to  me,  and  T  ask  Him  impu- 
dently why  He  is  punishing  me.  "  1  never  have  forgotten 
my  prayers  morning  and  evening;  then  why  do  I  suffer?  " 
I  can  assert  conclusively  that  the  first  step  towards  the  re- 
ligious doubts  which  troubled  me  during  my  boyhood  was 
taken  then,  not  because  unhappiness  excited  my  murmuring 
find  unbelief,  but  because  the  thought  of  the  injustice  of 
Providence,  which  entered  my  mind  in  that  time  of  si)iritiial 
disorder  and  solitude  of  twenty-four  hours  duration,  began 
speedily  to  grow  and  to  send  forth  roots,  like  a  pernicious 
seed  which  has  fallen  upon  the  soft  earth  after  a  rain.  Then  I 
imagined  that  I  should  certainly  die,  and  i-epresented  vividly 
to  myself  St.  Jerome's  amazement  when  he.  should  find 
a  lifeless  body  in  the  garret,  instead  of  me.  Recalling 
Natalya  Savisc-hna's  tales  of  how  the  soul  of  a  dead  perso.i 
does  not  quit  the  house  for  fortj'  daj's,  I  penetrate,  in 
thought,  unseen,  all  the  rooms  of  grandmamma's  house,  and 
listen  to  Liubotchka's  sincere  tears,  to  grandmamma's  grief, 
and  papa's  conversation  with  August  Antonitch.  "  He  was 
a  fine  bo}',"  saj^s  papa,  with  tears  in  his  eyes.  "  Yes,"  says 
St.  Jerome,  "but  a  great  scamp."  —  "You  should  respect 
the  dead,"  says  papa.  "  You  were  the  cause  of  his  death  ; 
you  frightened  him ;  he  could  not  endure  the  humiliation 
which  you  were  preparing  for  him.  Away  from  here,  you 
villain  !  ' ' 

And  St.  Jerome  falls  on  his  knees,  and  weeps,  and  sues 
for  pardon.  At  the  end  of  the  forty  days,  my  soul  fiios  to 
heaven ;  there   I    behold    something    wonderfully    beautiful, 


BOYHOOD.  165 

white,  transparent,  and  long,  and  I  feel  that  it  is  my  mother. 
This  white  something  surrounds  me,  caresses  me  ;  but  I  feel 
an  uneasiness,  as  though  I  did  not  know  her.  "If  it  really 
is  you,"  I  say,  "then  show  yourself  to  me  more  distinctly, 
that  I  ma}'  embrace  you."  And  her  voice  answers  me,  "  We 
are  all  so,  here.  I  cannot  embrace  you  any  better.  Do 
you  not  think  it  well  thus?  " —  "  Yes,  1  think  it  is  very  well ; 
but  you  cannot  tickle  me,  and  I  cannot  kiss  your  hands." 
—  "  That  is  not  necessary  ;  it  is  so  very  beautiful  here,"  she 
sa^'s.  and  I  feel  that  it  really  is  very  beautiful,  and  we  soar 
away  together,  higher  and  ever  higher.  Then  I  suddenly 
seem  to  wake,  and  find  myself  again  on  the  chest  in  the 
dark  garret,  my  cheeks  wet  with  tears,  without  a  single 
thought,  repeating  the  words,  ^^  And  we  soar  hiyher  and 
ever  higher."  For  a  long  time,  I  exert  all  ni}'  power  to  ex- 
plain my  situation  ;  but  only  one  fearfully  gloomy,  impenetra- 
ble perspective  offers  itself  to  m}^  mental  gaze  at  the  present 
moment.  I  endeavor  to  return  once  more  to  those  cheer- 
ing, blissful  dreams,  which  destro^'ed  consciousness  of  reality  ; 
but  to  my  amazement,  no  sooner  do  1  enter  upon  the  traces 
of  m}^  former  reveries,  than  I  see  that  a  prolongation  of 
them  is  iuipossil)le,  and,  Avhat  is  still  more  surprising,  that 
it  no  longer  affords  me  any  pleasure. 


166  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

GRIKD  LONG  ENOUGH,  AND  THE  MEAL  WILL  COME, 

I  SPENT  the  night  in  the  garret,  and  no  one  came  near  me ; 
it  was  only  on  the  foUowing  day,  that  is  to  say,  on  Sunday, 
that  I  was  taken  to  a  little  room  adjoining  the  schoolroom, 
and  again  locked  up.  I  began  to  hope  that  my  punishment 
would  be  confined  to  imprisonment;  and  my  thoughts,  under 
the  influence  of  sweet,  refreshing  slumber,  of  the  bright  sun- 
light Inlaying  upon  the  frost-patterns  on  the  windows,  and 
the  customary  noises  of  the  day  in  the  streets,  began  to 
grow  composed.  Nevertheless,  my  solitude  was  very  oppres- 
sive :  I  wanted  to  move  al)ont,  to  tell  somebody  all  that  was 
seething  in  my  soul,  and  there  was  not  a  living  being  near 
me.  This  position  of  affairs  was  all  the  more  disagreeable, 
because,  however  repulsive  it  was  to  me,  I  could  not  avoid 
hearing  St.  Jerome  whistling  various  ga}'  airs  with  ])erfect 
tranrjuillity,  as  he  walked  about  his  room.  I  was  fully  per- 
suaded that  he  did  not  want  to  whistle  at  all,  but  that  he 
did  it  solely  for  the  sake  of  tormenting  me. 

At  two  o'clock,  St.  Jerome  and  Volodya  went  down-stairs  ; 
but  Nikolai  brought  my  dinner,  and  when  I  spoke  to  him 
about  what  I  had  done,  and  what  awaited  me,  he  said  : 

"  Eh,  sir  !  don't  grieve  ;  grind  long  enough,  and  the  meal 
will  come."  ^ 

This  adage,  which,  later  on,  more  than  once  sustained  my 
firmness  of  spirit,  comforted  me  somewhat ;  but  the  very 
fact  that  they  had  not  sent  me  bread  and  water  alone,  but  a 
complete  dinner,  including  rose  i)atties,  caused  me  to  meditate 
profoundly.  If  the}'  had  not  sent  me  the  rose  patties,  then 
it  would  have  signified  that  I  was  to  be  punished  b\'  imi)ris- 
onment ;  but  now  it  turned  out  that  I  had  not  been  punished 
yet,  that  I  was  only  isolated  from  others  as  a  pernicious 
person,  and  that  chastisement  was   still  ])efore  me.    While 

1  EquivaU-nl  to  vaiious  English  proverbs  wliicli  inculcate  pulience. 


BOYHOOD.  167 

I  was  busy  with  the  solution  of  this  question,  the  key  turned 
iu  the  lock  of  my  prison,  and  8t.  Jerome  entered  the  room, 
with  a  stern,  official  countenance. 

"  Come  to  your  grandmother,"  he  said,  without  looking  at 
me. 

1  wanted  to  clean  the  cuffs  of  my  jacket,  which  Avere 
smeared  with  chalk,  before  leaving  the  room  ;  but  St.  Jerome 
told  me  that  this  was  quite  unnecessary,  as  though  I  was  al- 
ready in  such  a  pitiful  moral  condition  that  it  was  not  worth 
while  to  trouble  nn'self  ab(^ut  my  external  ai)i)earauce. 

Katenka,  Liubotchka,  and  Volodya  stared  at  me,  as  St. 
Jerome  led  me  through  tiie  hall  by  the  hand,  with  exactly 
the  same  expression  with  which  we  generally  gaze  upon  tlie 
prisoners  who  are  led  past  our  windows  every  week.  But 
when  I  approached  grandmamma's  chair  with  the  intention 
of  kissing  her  hand,  slie  turned  away  from  me,  and  hid  her 
hand  l)eneath  her  mantilla. 

"  Well,  m}^  dear,"  she  said,  after  a  tolerably  long  silence, 
during  which  slie  surveyed  me  from  head  to  foot  with  such  a 
look  that  I  did  not  know  what  to  do  Avith  my  eyes  and  hands, 
"  I  must  say  that  you  prize  my  love,  and  afford  me  true 
pleasure.  M.  St.  Jerome,  who  at  my  request,"  she  added, 
pausing  on  each  word,  '■'•  undertook  your  education,  does  not 
wish  now  to  remain  in  my  house  any  longer.  Why?  Because 
of  you,  my  dear.  I  did  hope  that  30U  would  be  grateful," 
she  continued  after  a  short  silence,  and  in  a  tone  which 
showed  that  her  speech  had  been  prepared  beforehand,  "  for 
his  care  and  labor,  that  you  would  understand  how  to  value 
his  services ;  but  you,  a  simpleton,  a  little  boy,  have  brought 
yourself  to  raise  your  hand  against  him.  Very  good  !  Ex- 
tremely fine  !  I,  also,  begin  to  think  that  you  are  incapable 
of  appreciating  gentle  treatment,  that  other  and  more  de- 
graded means  are  required  for  3'ou.  Ask  his  pardon  this 
instant,"  she  added  in  a  tone  of  stern  command,  pointing  to 
St.  Jerome  :  "do  you  hear?  " 

I  glanced  in  the  direction  indicated  by  grandmamma's 
hand,  and,  catching  sight  of  St.  Jerome's  coat,  turned  away, 
and  did  not  stir  from  the  spot ;  and  again  1  began  to  feel 
that  sinking  at  my  heart. 

"  What?     Don't  you  hear  what  I  say  to  3'ou?  " 

I  trembled  all  over,  but  did  not  move. 

"  Koko  !  "  said  grandmamma,  who  must  have  perceived 
the   inward   agony  which  1  was   suffering.     "Koko!"   she 


168  BOYHOOD. 

said  in  a  tender,  rather  than  a  commanding,  voice,  ''  is  this 
you?" 

"Grandmamma,  I  will  not  beg  his  pardon,  because"  — 
said  I,  pausing  suddenly,  for  I  felt  that  I  should  not  be  able 
to  restrain  the  tears  which  were  suffocating  me  if  1  uttered  a 
single  word  more. 

"■  I  command  you,  I  beseech  you.  What  is  the  matter 
with  you  ?  "  t 

"I  —  I  —  won't  —  I  can't,"  I  said;  and  the  stifled  soVis 
which  had  collected  in  my  breast  suddenly  cast  down  the 
barriers  which  restrained  them,  and  dissolved  in  a  flood  of 
despair. 

"■  Is  this  the  wa}'  you  obey  your  second  mother?  is  this  the 
way  you  repa}'  her  kindness?  "  said  8t.  Jerome  in  a  tragic 
voice.     "  On  your  knees  !  " 

"My  God,  if  she  could  have  seen  this!"  said  grand- 
mamma, turning  away  from  me,  and  wiping  her  tears  which 
began  to  make  their  appearance.  "  If  she  could  have  seen  — 
All  is  for  the  best.  Yes,  she  could  not  have  borne  this  sor- 
row, she  could  not  have  borne  it." 

And  grandmamma  wept  more  and  more  violently.  I  wept 
also,  but  I  never  thought  of  begging  pardon. 

"  Calm  yourself,  in  the  name  of  heaven,  Madame  la  Com- 
tesse,"  said  St.  Jerome. 

But  grandmamma  no  longer  heard  him  :  she  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands,  and  her  sobs  speedily  turned  into  hic- 
coughs and  hysterics.  Mirai  and  Gascha  rushed  into  the 
room  with  frightened  faces,  and  made  her  smell  of  some 
spirits,  and  a  running  and  whispering  speedily  arose  all  over 
the  room. 

"Admire  your  work,"  said  St.  Jerome,  leading  me  up-stairs. 

"  My  God,  what  have  I  done?  What  a  frightful  criminal 
I  am!" 

As  soon  as  St.  Jerome  had  gone  down-stairs  again,  after 
ordering  me  to  go  to  my  room,  1  ran  to  the  great  staircase 
leading  to  the  street,  without  giving  myself  any  reason  for 
what  1  was  about. 

I  do  not  remember  whether  I  meant  to  run  away,  or  to 
drown  myself  :  I  only  know,  that  covering  my  face  with  my 
hands,  ill  order  that  1  might  not  see  any  one,  I  ran  farther 
and  farther  down  those  stairs. 

"  Where  are  you  going?  "  a  fnmiliar  voice  inquired  all  at 
once.     "  1  want  you  too,  my  dear." 


BOYHOOD.  169 

I  tried  to  run  past ;  but  papa  caught  me  b}'  the  hand,  and 
said  sternh' : 

''  Come  with  me,  my  good  fellow  !  How  dared  you  touch 
the  portfolio  in  my  study?"  said  he,  leading  me  after  him 
into  the  little  boudoir.  "  Eh!  Why  are  you  silent?  Hey?" 
he  added,  taking  me  by  the  ear. 

"Forgive  me,"  I  said:  "I  don't  know  what  possessed 
me." 

"Ah,  you  don't  know  what  possessed  you!  you  don't 
know  !  you  don't  know  !  you  don't  know  !  you  don't  know  I  " 
he  repeated,  and  gave  my  ear  a  pull  at  each  word.  "  AVill 
you  poke  your  nose  where  you  have  no  business  in  future  ? 
will  you?  will  you?  " 

Although  my  ear  pained  me  л-егу  much,  I  did  not  cry  ;  but 
I  experienced  a  pleasant  moral  feeling.  No  sooner  had 
papa  released  my  ear,  than  I  seized  his  haud,  and  began  to 
cover  it  with  tears  and  kisses. 

"  Whip  me,"  said  I  through  my  tears.  "  Whip  me  hard, 
painfully ;  I  am  good  for  nothing ;  I  am  a  wretch ;  I  am  a 
miserable  being." 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you?"  he  said,  slightly  repuls- 
ing me. 

"No,  I  won't  go  away  on  any  account,"  I  said,  clinging 
to  his  coat.  "Everybody  hates  me,  I  know  that;  but  for 
God's  sake,  listen  to  me,  protect  me,  or  turn  me  out  of  the 
house.  I  cannot  live  with  him  ;  he  tries  in  every  way  to 
humiliate  me.  He  makes  me  go  on  m}'  knees  befor:  hirj.  He 
wants  to  thrash  me.  I  won't  have  it ;  I  am  not  a  little  boy. 
I  can't  endure  it ;  I  shall  die  ;  I  will  kill  myself.  He  told 
grandmamma  that  I  was  a  good-for-nothing,  and  now  she  is 
ill,  and  she  will  die  because  of  me.  I  —  for  God's  sake, 
flog  me  !  why  torture  me  for  it  ?  " 

Tears  suffocated  me.  I  seated  m3"self  on  the  divan,  utter- 
1}^  powerless  to  say  more,  and  dropped  my  head  on  his  knees, 
sobbing  so  that  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  should  die  that  very 
minute. 

"  AVhat  are  you  crying  about,  baby?"  said  papa  sympa- 
theticalh',  as  he  bent  over  me. 

"  He  is  my  tyrant — tormentor.  I  shall  die  ;  nobody  loves 
me!  "  I  could  hardly  speak,  and  I  began  to  fall  into  con- 
vulsions. 

Гара  took  me  in  his  arms,  and  carried  me  into  the  bed- 
room.    1  fell  asleep.     When  1  awoke,  it  was  veiY     •  ^      A 


170  BOYHOOD. 

single  candle  was  burning  near  my  bed,  and  our  famih^  doc- 
tor, Mimi,  and  Liubotchka  луеге  sitting  in  the  room.  It  was 
evident  from  their  faces,  that  they  feared  for  my  health  ;  but 
I  felt  so  well  and  light  after  my  twelve  hours  sleep,  that  I 
could  have  leajjed  from  the  bed,  had  it  not  been  disagree- 
чЬ1е  for  me  to  disturb  their  belief  iu  my  severe  illness. 


BOYHOOD.  171 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

HATRED. 

Yes,  it  was  a  genuine  feeling  of  hatred.  Not  that  hatred 
which  is  only  depicted  in  romances,  and  in  which  I  do 
not  believe,  —  hatred  which  finds  delight  in  doing  evil  to 
mankind  :  but  that  hatred  which  inspires  you  with  an  uncon- 
querable aversion  to  a  person  who  nevertheless  deserves  your 
respect ;  which  makes  his  hair,  his  neck,  his  walk,  the  sound 
of  his  voice,  his  ever}'  limb,  his  ever}'  motion,  repulsive  to 
you,  and  at  the  same  time  attracts  you  to  him  by  some  in- 
comprehensible power,  and  forces  you  to  watch  his  slightest 
acts.     This  feeling  I  experienced  toward  St.  Jerome. 

St.  Jerome  had  lived  with  us  for  a  year  and  a  half.  Judg- 
ing the  man  now,  in  cold  blood,  1  find  that  he  was  a  fine 
Frenchman,  but  a  Frenchman  in  the  most  thorough  sense. 
He  was  not  stupid:  he  was  tolerably  well  educated,  and  he^ 
conscientiously  fulfilled  his  duties  toward  us  :  but  he  possessed 
the  distinctive  traits  >vhich  are  peculiar  to  all  his  country- 
men, and  which  are  so  repugnant  to  the  Russian  character, — • 
egotism,  vanity,  impudence,  and  unmannerly  self-confidence. 
All  this  dis[)leased  me  greatly. 

Of  course  grandmamma  explained  to  him  her  \'iews  on  cor- 
poral punishment,  and  he  did  not  dare  to  whip  us  ;  but  in 
spite  of  this,  he  often  threatened  us,  especially  me,  with  the 
rod,  and  pronounced  the  word  foneiter  (as  if  it  were /(Aiafter) 
•in  a  very  repulsive  manner,  and  with  an  intonation  which 
seemed  to  indicate  that  it  would  afford  him  the  greatest  sat- 
isfaction to  flog  me. 

I  did  not  fear  the  pain  of  punishment  at  all,  never  having 
experienced  it ;  but  the  thought  alone  that  St.  Jerome  might 
strike  me  put  me  into  a  state  of  suppressed  rage  and  despair. 

It  had  happened  that  Karl  Ivanitch,  in  a  moment  of  vex- 
ation, liad  reduced  us  to  order  with  the  ruler  or  his  sus- 
penders, but  I  recall  this  without  the  slightest  ap"'   >r.     Even 


172  BOYHOOD. 

at  the  time  of  which  I  speak  (when  I  was  fourteen),  if  Karl 
Ivanitch  had  chauced  to  flog  me,  I  should  have  borne  his 
chastisement  with  perfect  composure.  I  loved  Karl  Ivanitch. 
I  remembered  him  from  the  time  when  I  remembered  luyself, 
and  was  accustomed  to  him  as  a  member  of  m^-  family  ;  but 
St.  Jerome  was  a  haughty,  self-conceited  man,  for  whom  I 
felt  no  sentiment  but  that  involuntary'  respect  with  лvllich  all 
grown-up  people  inspired  me.  Karl  Ivanitch  was  a  ridiculous 
old  man,  a  kind  of  man-servant  whom  I  heartily  loved,  but 
placed  beneath  myself  in  my  childish  comprehension  of 
social  classes. 

St.  Jerome,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  handsome,  cultivated 
young  dandy,  who  tried  to  stand  on  an  equality  with  every 
one. 

Karl  Ivanitch  always  scolded  and  punished  us  cooll}'.  It 
was  evident  that  he  regarded  it  as  a  necessary  but  disagree- 
able duty.  St.  Jerome,  on  the  other  hand,  liked  io  pose  in 
the  role  of  an  instructor.  It  was  plain,  Avhen  he  punished  us, 
that  he  did  so  more  for  his  own  satisfaction  than  for  our 
good.  He  was  carried  awa}'  by  his  own  greatness.  His  ele- 
gant French  phrases,  which  he  uttered  with  strong  emphasis 
on  the  last  syllal)le,  with  circumflex  accents,  were  inexpress- 
ibly repugnant  to  lue.  AVhen  Karl  Ivanitch  got  angry,  he 
said,  "  Puppets'  comedy,  scamp,  little  boy  of  a^  champagne 
fl}' !  "  St.  Jerome  called  us  "  Avorthless  fell^(nv,  vile  scape- 
grace," and  so  forth,  names  which  wounded  my  self- 
love. 

Karl  Ivanitch  put  us  on  our  knees,  with  our  faces  in  a  cor- 
ner ;  and  the  punishment  consisted  of  the  physical  pain  inci- 
dent to  such  an  attitude.  St.  Jerome  threw  out  his  chest, 
and  shouted,  with  a  majestic  wave  of  the  hand,  and  in  a 
tragic  voice,  ''  On  your  knees  !  "  made  us  kneel  with  our  faces 
towards  him,  and  beg  his  pardon.  The  punishment  consisted 
in  humiliation. 

I  was  not  punished,  and  no  one  so  much  as  mentioned  to 
me  what  had  happened ;  but  1  could  not  forget  all  that  I  had 
undergone — despair,  shame,,  terror,  and  hate  —  in  those  two 
da^^s.  In  spite  of  the  fact  that  St.  Jerome,  from  that  time 
forth,  seemed  to  give  up  all  hopes  of  me,  and  hardly  con- 
cerned himself  with  me  at  all,  I  could  not  accustom  myself  to 
look  upon  him  with  indifference.  Ever}-  time  that  our  eyes 
met  by  accident,  it  seemed  to  me  that  enmity  was  far  too 
plainly  expressed  iu  my  glance,  and  1  hastened  to  assume  an 


BOYHOOD.  173 

expression  of  indifference  ;  but  then  it  seemed  to  me  that  he 
understood  my  hj^pocrisy,  and  I  blushed  and  turned  quite 
away. 

In  a  word,  it  was  inexpressibly-  disagreeable  to  me  to  have 
any  relations  whatever  with  him. 


174  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER   XVIir. 

THE  maids'  room. 

(I  FELT  more  and  more  lonely,  and  solitar}'  meditation  and 
observation  formed  m}'  principal  delights.  The  suliject  of  my 
meditations  I  will  ti'eat  of  in  a  succeeding  chapter ;  but  the 
chief  theatre  of  my  observations  was  the  maids'  room,  in  which 
a  ver}'  al>sorbing  and  touching  romance,  for  me,  took  place. 
The  heroine  of  this  romance  was  Mascha,  of  course.  She 
was  in  love  with  Vasili,  who  had  known  her  when  she  lived 
out  of  service,  and  had  promised  to  marry  her  at  that  time. 
Fate,  which  had  parted  them  five  years  before,  had  again 
brought  them  together  in  grandmamma's  house,  but  had 
placed  a  barrier  in  the  way  of  their  mutual  love  in  the  person 
of  Nikolai  (Mascha's  uncle),  who  would  not  hear  to  his 
niece's  marriage  with  \'asili,  whom  he  called  an  unsuitable 
and  dissipatexl  man. 

The  effect  of  this  obstacle  w-as  to  cause  the  hitherto  cold- 
blooded and  negligent  Vasili  to  suddenly  faU  in  love  with 
Mascha ;  and  he  loved  her  in  a  way  of  which  only  a  house- 
serf  from  the  tailor's  corps,  with  a  pink  shirt  and  pomaded 
hair,  is. capable. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  the  exhibitions  of  his  love  were 
exceedingly  strange  and  unsuitable  (for  instance,  when  he 
met  Mascha,  he  always  tried  to  cause  her  pain,  and  either 
pinched  her,  or  slapped  her,  or  hugged  her  with  such  force 
that  she  could  hardly  draw  her  breath),  but  his  affection  was 
genuine,  which  was  proved  b}-  the  circumstance  that  from 
the  day  when  Nikolai  finally  refused  him  his  niece's  hand, 
\"asili  took  to  drinking  from  grief,  and  began  to  loiter  about 
the  drinking-houses,  create  disturbances,  and,  in  a  word,  to 
conduct  himself  so  badly,  that  more  than  once  he  subjected 
himself  to  scandalous  correction  by  the  police.  But  this  be- 
havior and  its  results  appeared  to  constitute  a  merit  in  IMas- 
cha's  eyes,  and  increased   her  love  for  him.      When  Vasili 


BOYHOOD.  175 

was  in  retirement^  Mascha  wept  for  da^'s  together  without 
drying  her  eyes,  complained  of  her  bitter  fate  to  Gaseha 
(who  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  affairs  of  the  nnhaiipy 
loл'ers)  ;  and,  scorning  the  scoldings  and  beatings  of  her 
uncle,  she  stole  awa}^  to  the  police-station  on  the  sly  to  visit 
and  comfort  her  friend. 

Бе  not  angr}',  reader,  at  the  society'  to  which  I  am  intro- 
ducing you.  If  the  chords  of  love  and  sympathy  have  not 
grown  weak  within  your  soul,  sounds  to  which  they  will  respond 
will  be  found  in  the  maids'  room.  AVhether  it  please  you  or 
not  to  follow  me,  I  shall  betake  myself  to  the  lauding  on 
the  staircase,  from  which  I  could  see  all  that  went  on  in  the 
maids'  room.  There  is  the  bench  on  which  they  stand  ;  the 
flat-iron,  the  pasteboard  doll  with  a  broken  nose,  the  little 
wash-tub,  and  the  hand-basin  ;  there  is  the  window-sill  upon 
which  are  heaped  in  confusion  a  bit  of  black  wax,  a  skein  of 
silk,  a  green  cucumber  which  has  been  bitten,  and  a  bonbon 
box  ;  there,  also,  is  the  large  red  table,  upon  which,  upon  a 
bit  of  sewing  which  is  begun,  lies  a  brick  wrapped  in  calico, 
and  behind  which  she  sits,  in  my  favorite  pink  linen  dress 
and  blue  kerchief,  which  particularly  attracts  my  attention. 
She  sews,  pausing  now  and  then  in  order  to  scratch  her  head 
with  her  needle,  or  adjust  a  candle  ;  and  I  gaze  and  think. 
Why  was  she  not  born  a  lady,  with  those  bright  blue  eyes,  that 
huge  golden  braid  of  hair,  and  plump  bosom  ?  How  it  would 
have  become  her  to  sit  in  the  drawing-room,  in  a  cap  with 
pink  ribbons,  and  a  deep  red  gown,  not  such  as  Mimi  has, 
but  like  the  one  I  saw  on  the  Tversk}^  boulevard  !  She  would 
have  embroidered  at  her  frame,  and  I  might  have  watched 
her  in  the  mirror  ;  and  I  would  have  done  every  thing  she 
wanted,  whatever  it  might  have  been  :  1  would  have  handed 
her  her  mantle  and  her  hood  myself. 

And  what  a  drunken  face  and  disgusting  figure  that  Vasili 
has  in  his  tight  coat,  worn  above  that  dirty  pink  shirt,  which 
hangs  out !  At  every  movement  of  his  body,  at  every  bend 
of  his  spine,  I  seem  to  perceive  the  indisi)utable  signs  of  the 
revolting  punishment  which  had  overtaken  him. 

"  What,  Vasya  !  again?  "  said  Mascha,  sticking  her  needle 
into  the  cushion,  but  not  raising  her  head  to  greet  Vasili  as 
he  entered. 

"  And  what  of  it?  AVill  any  good  come  of  liim?  "  retorted 
Vasili.  "  Jf  1  had  only  decided  on  tiomethiug  alone  !  but 
now  1  shall  be  ruined  all  for  nothing,  and  all  through  hna." 


176  BOY  HOOD. 

"  AVill  you  have  some  tea?"  said  Nadezlida,  auoUicr 
maid. 

"  I  tliauk  you  hnnibh'.  And  why  does  tliat  thief,  your 
uncle,  hate  me?  Wliy?  Because  1  have  clothes  of  un'owu, 
because  of  ray  pride,  because  of  my  walk.  Euouiih.  There 
you  have  it !  "  concluded  Vasili,  with  a  wave  of  the  hand. 

"One  must  be  obedient,"  said  Mascha,  biting  off  her 
thread,  "  and  you  are  so  "  — 

"  I  had  no  property,  that's  where  it  is  !  " 

At  tliat  moi^ent  the  sound  of  a  closing  door  resounded 
from  graudmanuna's  room,  and  Gascha's  grumbling  voice 
approaching  the  staircase. 

'"Go  try  to  please  her,  Avhen  she  doesn't  know  herself 
what  she  wants.  Cursed  good-for-nothing  jail-l)ird !  May 
the  Lord  forgive  my  sins,  if  for  that  alone,"  she  muttered, 
flourishing  her  arms. 

"My  respects,  Agaf  у  a  Mikhailovna,"  said  Vasili,  rising 
to  greet  her. 

"  Well,  so  you  are  there!  I  don't  want  your  respects," 
she  replied  grimly,  staring  at  him.  "  And  why  do  you  come 
here?     Is  the  maids'  room  a  place  for  men  to  come?  " 

"  I  wanted  to  inquire  after  your  health,"  said  Vasili  tim- 
idly. 

"I  shall  soon  expire,  that's  the  state  of  my  health," 
screamed  Agafya  Mikhailovna,  still  more  angrily,  and  at  the 
top  of  her  voice. 

Vasili  laughed. 

"There's  nothing  to  laugh  at,  and  if  I  say  that  you  are 
to  take  yourself  off,  then  march  !  See,  that  heathen  wants  to 
marry,  the  low  fellow  !     Now  march,  be  off !  " 

And  Agafya  went  stamping  to  her  room,  and  slammed  the 
door  so  violently  that  the  glass  in  the  windows  rattled. 

She  was  audible  for  a  long  time  behind  the  partition,  scold- 
ing at  everything  and  everybody,  cursing  her  existence, 
hurling  her  effects  about,  and  pulling  the  ears  of  her  beloved 
cat ;  finally  the  door  opened  a  crack,  and  the  cat  flew  out, 
swung  by  her  tail,  and  mewing  piteously. 

"  Evidently  I  had  better  come  another  time  to  drink  tea," 
said  Vasili  in  a  whisper;  "farewell  until  a  pleasant  meet- 
ing." 

"Never  mind,"  said  Nadezhda  with  a  wink,  "I  will  go 
and  see  to  the  samovar." 

"  Yes,  and  I'll  make  an  end  of  it  once  for  all,"  continued 


BOYHOOD.  177 

Vasili,  seating  himself  close  to  Mascha,  as  soou  as  Nadezbda 
had  left  the  room. 

"  I'll  either  go  straight  to  the  Countess,  and  say,  '  Thus  and 
so  is  the  state  of  things,'  or  else  —  I'll  give  up  ел'егу  thing, 
and  run  away  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  by  God  !  " 

^'^  And  how  can  I  remain?  " 

"  I  am  only  sorry  for  you,  and  люп  should  have  been  free, 
my  little  dove,  lo-o-ng  ago,  so  surely  as  God  lives." 

"  Why  don't  you  bring  me  your  shirts  to  wash,  Vasya?" 
said  Mascha  after  a  momentary  silence  :  '"'  see  how  black  this 
one  is,"  she  added,  taking  hold  of  the  sliirt-coUar. 

At  that  moment,  grandmamma's  little  bell  was  heard  from 
below,  and  Gascha  emerged  from  her  chamber. 

"•  What  are  you  getting  from  her  now,  you  vile  man?  "  she 
said,  pushing  Vasili  towards  the  door,  as  he  rose  hastily  at 
the  sight  of  her:  ''you  have  brought  the  girl  to  this  state, 
and  still  you  cling  to  her,  you  wretch  ;  evidently,  it's  merry 
for  зюи  to  gaze  upon  her  tears..  Go  away.  Take  yourself 
off.  —  What  good  did  you  ever  find  in  him?"  she  went  on, 
turning  to  INIascha.  "  Didn't  your  uncle  beat  you  to-day  on 
his  account?  No,  з'ои  will  liave  your  own  way:  'I  won't 
marry  anybody  Init  Vasili  Gruskoff. '     The  fool !  " 

"  I  won't  marry  anybody,  J  don't  love  anybody,  if  I'm 
beaten  to  death  for  it,"  cried  Mascha,  bursting  into  tears  all 
at  once. 

I  gazed  long  at  Mascha,  who.  reclining  upon  a  chest,  Aviped 
away  her  tears  with  her  kerchief  ;  and  1  made  every  effort  to 
alter  my  opinion  of  Vasili,  and  endeavored  to  find  the  point 
of  view  from  which  he  could  appear  so  attractive  to  her. 
But,  in  spite  of  my  sincere  sympathy  with  her  grief,  I  could 
not  possibly  comprehend  how  such  a  l)ewitching  being  as 
Mascha  appeared  in  my  e3'es  could  love  Vasili. 

"When  1  am  grown  up,"  I  reasoned  with  myself,  as  I 
went  up-stairs  to  my  own  quarters,  "  Petrovskoe  will  be  mine, 
and  Mascha  and  Vasili  will  be  my  serfs.  I  shall  be  sitting 
in  the  stud}',  smoking  my  pipe,  and  JMascha  will  be  going  to 
the  kitchen  with  hc4'  flat-iron.  I  shall  sa}',  4'all  Mascha  to 
me.'  She  will  come,  and  there  will  be  no  one  in  the  room  — 
All  at  once,  Vasili  will  enter,  and  when  he  sees  ]\Iaseha  he 
will  say,  '  My  dear  little  dove  is  ruined  !  '  And  Masclia  will 
crj' ;  and  I  shall  say,  'Vasili,  I  know  that  з'ои  love  her, 
and  she  loves  you  :  here  are  a  thousand  rubles  for  you  ; 
marry  her;  and  may  God  grant  you  happiness.'     And  then 


i78  BOY  noon. 

T  shall  go  into  the  houdoir."^  Among  the  innnmerable 
thonghts  and  fancies  which  pass  throngh  the  mind  and  imagi- 
nation, leaving  no  trace,  there  are  some  which  leave  a  deep, 
sensitive  furrow,  so  that,  without  recalling  the  thought  itself, 
one  remembers  that  there  was  something  jjleasant  in  one's 
mind,  and  one  feels  the  trace  of  the  thought,  and  tries  to 
leproduce  it  once  again.  !Such  a  deep  trace  did  the  thought 
of  sacrificing  my  own  feeling  for  the  sake  of  such  happiness 
as  ^lascha  might  tind  in  a  marriage  with  Vasili,  leave  In 
my  soul. 

1  Or  divaiiroom. 


BOYUOOD. 


ua^ — . 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

BOYHOOD. 

I  CAX  scarceh'^  ЬеИел'е  Avhat  were  the  faл•oпte  and  most 
constant  sul)jects  of  my  meditations  during  m}'  boviiood  — 
they  were  so  incompatible  лvitll  my  age  and  position.  But, 
in  my  opinion,  incompatibility  between  a  man's  position  and 
his  moral  activity  is  the  truest  proof  of  sincerity. 

During  the  course  of  the  Л'еаг,  when  I  led  an  isolated 
moral  life,  concentrated  within  myself,  all  the  abstract  ques- 
tions concerning  the  destination  of  man,  the  future  life,  the 
immortality  of  the  soul,  had  presented  themselves  to  me  ; 
and,  with  all  the  fervor  of  inexperience,  my  weak,  chiklish 
mind  endeavored  to  solve  these  questions,  the  presentation  of 
which  represents  the  highest  stage  to  which  the  mind  of  man 
can  attain,  but  the  solution  of  which  is  not  granted  to  him. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  human  mind,  in  every  separate 
individual,  traverses  the  same  path  during  development  by 
which  it  is  developed  in  whole  races ;  that  the  thoughts 
which  serve  as  a  foundation  for  the  A'arious  philosophical 
theories  form  the  inaliena'ole  attributes  of  the  mind  :  but  that 
every  man  has  recognized  them,  Avith  more  or  less  clearness, 
even  before  he  knew  of  the  philosophical  theories. 

These  thoughts  presented  themselves  to  vc\y  mind  with 
such  clearness,  and  in  such  a  striking  light,  that  I  even  tried 
to  apply  them  to  life,  fancying  that  I  was  t\ni.  first  to  discover 
such  great  and  useful  truths. 

Once  the  thought  occurred  to  me,  that  happiness  does  not  - 
depend  upon  external  conditions,  but  on  our  relations  to  >J 
them  ;  that  man,  after  he  is  accustomed  to  endure  suffering, 
cannot  be  unhappy  ;  and,  in  order  to  accustom  myself  to 
labor,  I  held  Tatischef's  lexicon  for  five  minutes  in  my  out- 
stretched hands,  in  spite  of  dreadful  pain,  or  I  went  into  the 
garret  and  castigated  myself  on  the  bare  back  with  a  rope  so 
severely  that  tears  sprang  involuntarily  to  my  eyes. 


180  BOYHOOD. 

\\  Ou  another  occasion,  remembering,  a'/i  of  a  sudden,  that 
death  awaited  me  at  any  hour,  at  any  moment,  I  made  up 
my  mind,  not  understanding"  nc.v  people  had  hitherto  failed 
to  understand  it,  that  man  can  be  happ}-  only  l)y  making  use 
of  the  present,  and  not  thinking  of  the  future ;  and  for 
three  days,  under  tlie  influence  of  this  thought,  I  neglected 
my  lessons,  and  did  nothing  but  lie  on  the  bed,  and  enjoy 
myself  l)y  reading  a  romance  and  eating  gingerbread  with 
Kronoff  honey,  for  which  I  spent  the  last  money  I  had.  ' 

(_)n  another  occasion,  Avhile  standing  before  the  blackboard 
engaged  in  drawing  A'arious  figures  upon  it  with  chalk,  I  was 
suddenly  struck  by  the  thought :  Why  is  symmetry  pleasing 
to  the  eye  ?     What  is  symmetr}'  ? 

It  is  an  inborn  feeling,  I  answered  myself.  Rut  on  what 
is  it  founded?  Is  there  symmetry  in  every  thing  in  life?  On 
the  contrar}',  here  is  life.  And  I  drew  an  oval  figure  ou  the 
blackboard.  After  life  the  soul  passes  into  eternity.  And 
from  one  side  of  the  oval,  I  drew  a  line  which  extended  to 
the  verN'  edge  of  the  board.  Why  not  another  similar  line 
from  the  other  side?  Yes,  and,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  wiiat  kind 
of  eternity  is  that  which  is  on  one  side  only?  for  we  certainly 
have  existed  before  this  life,  althougli  we  have  lost  the 
memory  of  it. 

This  reasoning,  which  appeared  to  me  extremely  novel  and 
lucid,  and  whose  thread  I  can  now  only  catch  with  difficulty, 
pleased  me  excessiveh',  and  I  took  a  sheet  of  paper  with  the 
idea  of  committing  it  to  writing  ;  but,  in  the  process,  such  a 
mass  of  thoughts  suddenly  entered  my  mind,  that  I  was 
obliged  to  rise  and  walk  about  the  room.  When  I  a])proached 
the  window,  my  attention  turned  on  the  water-carrier  horse 
which  the  coachman  was  harnessing  at  the  moment ;  and  all 
my  thoughts  were  concentrated  upon  the  solution  of  the 
question.  Into  what  animal  or  man  will  the  soul  of  that 
horse  migrate,  when  it  is  set  free?  At  that  moment, 
Volodya  was  passing  through  the  room,  and  smiled,  j^erceiv- 
ing  that  I  was  meditating  something  ;  and  that  smile  was  suf- 
ficient to  make  me  comprehend  that  all  I  bad  been  thinking 
about  was  the  most  frightfid  nonsense. 

I  have  related  this,  to  me,  memorable  occasion,  merely  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  the  reader  to  understand  the  nature  of 
my  reflections. 

P>ut  in  none  of  all  the  philosophical  directions  was  I  drawn 
so  far  as  by  scepticism,  which  at  one  time  brought  me  into  a 


BOYHOOD.  181 

state  bordering  (  n  madness.  I  fancied  that,  besides  m3^self, 
nothing  and  nol  xly  existed  in  tlie  whole  world  ;  that  objects 
were  not  objects,  but  images  which  only  appeared  when  I 
directed  my  attention  to  them  ;  and  that,  as  soon  as  I  ceased 
to  think  of  them,  the  objects  disappeared. 

In  a  word,  I  agreed  with  Schelling  in  the  conAdction  that 
objects  do  not  exist,  but  only  my  relation  to  them  exists. 
There  were  moments,  when,  under  the  influence  of  this  Ji.ved 
idea,  I  reached  such  a  stage  of  derangement,  that  I  some- 
times glanced  quickl}'  in  the  opposite  direction,  hoping  to 
suddenly  find  nothingness  {neant)  where  1  was  not. 

A  pitifnl,worthless  spring  of  moral  action  is  the  mind  of  man  ! 

M}'  weak  mind  could  not  penetrate  the  impenetrable  ;  but 
in  this  labor,  which  Avas  l)eyoud  its  strength,  I  lost,  one  after 
the  other,  the  convictions  which,  for  the  happiness  of  my 
own  life,  I  never  should  have  dared  to  touch  upon. 
/  From  all  this  heavy  moral  toil  I  brought  away  nothing  У 
Texcept  a  quickness  of  mind  which  weakened  the  force  of  плуу^ 
\will,  and  a  habit  of  constant  moral  anal3'sis,  which  destroyed 
fxeshness  of  feeling  and  clearness  of  judgment. 
,'  Abstract  thoughts  take  shape,  in  consequence  of  man's 
Capacity  to  seize  with  his  perceptions  the  state  of  his  soul  at 
any  given  moment,  and  transfer  it  to  his  memory./  My  tend- 
ency to  absti'act  meditation  develoi)ed  the  perceptive  facul- 
ties in  me  to  such  an  unnatural  degree,  that  frequentl}', 
when  I  began  to  think  of  the  simplest  sort  of  thing,  I  fell 
into  an  inextricable  circle  of  analysis  of  my  thoughts,  and 
no  longer  considered  the  question  which  had  occupied  me, 
but  thought  of  what  I  was  thinking  about.  AVhen  I  asked 
myself.  Of  what  am  I  thinking?  I  replied,  I  think  of  what  I 
am  thinking.  And  now  what  am  I  thinking  of?  I  think 
that  I  am  thinking  of  what  I  am  thinking,  and  so  on, 
Intellect  gave  waj'  before  ratiocination.  - 

Nevertheless,  the  philosophical  discoveries  which  I  made 
луеге  extremely  flattering  to  my  self-conceit.  I  often  fancied 
myself  a  great  man,  who  was  discovering  new  truths  for  the 
benefit  of  maukmd,  and  I  gazed  upon  other  mortals  with  a 
proud  consciousness  of  my  worth  ;  but,  strange  to  say,  when 
I  came  in  contact  with  these  mortals,  I  was  shy  in  the  pres- 
ence of  every  one  of  them,  and  the  higher  I  rated  myself  in 
my  own  oi)inion,  the  less  capable  I  was  of  disi)laying  my 
consciousness  of  my  own  merit  to  others,  and  I  could  not 
even  accustom  myself  not  to  feel  ashamed  of  ni}"  everv  word 
and  movement,  however  snnple.  , 


182  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

VOLODYA. 

Yes,  the  farther  I  proceed  in  the  description  of  this  period 
of  my  life,  the  more  painful  and  difficult  does  it  become 
for  me.  Rarely,  rarely,  amid  the  memories  of  this  period,  do 
I  find  moments  of  the  genume  wai-mth  of  feeling  which  so 
brilliantly  and  constantly  illumined  the  beginning  of  my  life. 
I  feel  an  involuntary  desire  to  pass  as  quickly  as  possible 
over  the  desert  of  boyhood,  and  attain  that  happy  epoch 
when  a  truly  tender,  noble  sentiment  of  friendship  lighted  up 
the  conclusion  of  this  period  of  growth,  and  laid  the  founda- 
tion for  a  new  epoch,  full  of  charm  and  poetry,  —  the  epoch 
of  adolescence. 

I  shall  not  trace  my  recollections  hour  by  hour ;  but  I  will 
cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  principal  ones,  from  that  time  until 
my  connection  with  a  remarkable  man,  who  exercised  a  decided 
and  beneficial  influence  ui)on  my  character  and  course. 

Volodya  will  enter  the  university  in  a  few  days.  Separate 
masters  come  for  him  ;  and  I  listen  with  envy  and  involuntary 
respect  as  he  taps  the  blackboard  boldly  with  the  chalk,  and 
talks  of  functions,  and  sinuses,  and  co-ordinates,  and  so  on, 
which  seem  to  me  the  expression  of  unattainable  wisdom. 
But  one  Sunday,  after  dinner,  all  the  teachers  and  two  pro- 
fessors assemble  in  grandmamma's  room  ;  and  in  the  presence 
of  papa  and  several  guests  they  review  the  university  exam- 
ination, in  the  course  of  which  Volodya,  to  grandmamma's 
great  joy,  exhibits  remarkable  learning.  Questions  on  vari- 
ous sul)jects  are  also  put  to  me  ;  but  I  make  a  very  poor 
show,  and  the  professors  evidently  endeavor  to  conceal  my 
ignorance  before  grandmamma,  which  confuses  me  still  more. 
However,  very  little  attention  is  paid  to  me  ;  I  am  only 
fifteen,  consequently  there  is  still  a  year  to  my  examination. 
Vcjlodya  only  comes  down-stairs  at  dinner-time,  but  six'nds 
the  wliole  day  and  even  the  evenings  up-stairs  in  liis  occu- 
pations, not  of  necessity,  but  at  his  own  desire.     He  is  ex- 


BOYHOOD.  183 

tremely  vain,  and  does  not  want  to  pass  merely  a  mediocre 
examination,  but  a  distiugnislied  one. 

But  now  the  day  of  tlie  first  examination  lias  arrived. 
Volodya  puts  on  his  blue  coat,  with  brass  buttons,  his  gold 
watch,  and  lac(iuered  boots  ;  papa's  phaeton  is  brought  up  to 
the  door.  Nikolai  throws  aside  the  apron,  and  Volodya  and 
8t.  Jerome  drive  off  to  the  universit}'.  The  girls,  especially 
Katenka,  look  out  of  the  window  at  Volodya's  fine  figure  as 
he  seats  himself  in  the  carriage,  with  jo^'ous  and  rapturous 
faces  ;  and  papa  says,  "  God  grant  it !  God  grant  it !  "  and 
grandmamma,  who  has  also  dragged  herself  to  the  window, 
makes  the  sign  of  the  cross  over  Volod^'a,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  until  the  phaeton  disappears  round  the  corner  of  the 
lane,  and  says  something  in  a  whisper. 

Volodya  returns.  All  inquire  impatiently,  "Well,  was  it 
good?  how  much?"  But  it  is  already  evident  from  his 
beaming  face  that  it  is  good.  Volodya  has  received  five. 
On  the  following  da}'  he  is  accompanied  by  the  same  anxiety 
and  wishes  for  his  success,  and  received  with  the  same  impa- 
tience and  joy.  Thus  nine  days  pass.  On  the  tenth  day, 
the  last  and  most  difficult  examination  of  all  awaits  him  —  the 
Law  of  God  ;  and  all  of  us  stand  at  the  window  and  wait  for 
him  with  the  greatest  impatience.  Two  hours  have  already 
elapsed,  and  still  Volodya  has  not  returned. 

"Heavens!  my  dears!  here  they  are!  here  they  are!" 
screams  Liubotchka,  with  her  face  glued  to  the  pane. 

And,  in  fact,  Volodya  is  sitting  beside  St.  Jerome  in  the 
phaeton,  but  dressed  no  longer  in  his  blue  coat  and  gray  cap, 
but  in  student  uniform,  with  blue  embroidered  collar,  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  a  gilt  dagger  by  his  side. 

"Oh,  if  you  were  only  alive!"  shrieks  grandmamma, 
when  she  beholds  Volodya  in  his  uniform,  and  falls  into  a 
swoon . 

Volodya  runs  into  the  A'estibule  with  a  beaming  face,  kisses 
me,  Liubotchka,  Mimi,  and  Katenka,  who  blushes  to  lier 
very  ears.  Volodya  is  beside  himself  with  joy.  And  how 
handsome  he  is  in  his  uniform  !  How  becoming  his  blue 
collar  is  to  his  black  whiskers,  which  are  almost  sprouting ! 
What  a  long,  slender  waist  he  has,  and  what  a  fine  gait ! 
On  that  memorable  day,  all  dine  in  grandmamma's  room. 
Joy  beams  from  every  countenance  ;  and  after  dinner,  at 
dessert,  tlie  butler,  with  politely  mnjestic  but  merry  counte- 
nance, brings    in   a    bottle   of   cnampagne,  enveloped   in  a 


184  BOYHOOD. 

napkin.  Grandmamma  drinks  champagne,  for  the  first  tinie 
smee  mamma's  death  :  she  drinks  a  whole  ghiss,  as  she 
congratulates  Volodya,  and  she  weeps  again  with  joy  as  she 
looks  at  h'm.  ^'olodya  drivos  out  of  the  court-yard  in  his 
own  equipage  now,  receives  his  acquaintances  in  his  own 
apartments,  smokes  tobacco,  goes  to  balls  ;  and  I  even  saw 
him  and  his  companions,  on  one  occasion,  diink  up  two  l>ottles 
of  champagne  in  his  room,  and  at  ever}'  glass  ])iopose  the 
healths  of  some  mysterious  peisonages,  and  dispute  as  to 
which  one  the  bottom  of  the  bottle  l)elonged  to.  But  he 
dines  regularly  at  home,  and  sits  in  the  boudoir  after  dinner, 
as  before,  and  is  forever  engaged  in  some  mysterious  discus- 
sion with  Katenka ;  but  so  far  as  I  can  hear  —  for  I  do  not 
lake  part  in  their  conversation  —  they  are  merely  talking  of 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  novels  which  they  have  read, 
of  love  and  jealous}' ;  and  I  cannot  at  all  understand  what 
interest  they  can  find  in  such  discussions,  and  why  they 
smile  so  delicately  and  dispute  so  warmly. 

I  observe  in  general,  that  some  strange  relations  exist 
between  Katenka  and  Volodya,  besides  the  readily  intelligible 
friendship  between  companions  of  childhood,  which  set  tb.em 
apart  from  us,  and  unite  them  to  each  other  in  a  mystericus 
way. 


JWYIIOOD.  185 


CHAPTER  XXr. 

KATF.NKA    ЛХГ)    l.IUBOTCHKA- 

Katf.nka  is  sixteen,  slie  is  jrrown  up:  tlio  angulaiity  of 
form,  the  timidity  and  a\vkwardncs,s  of  movement,  i)eciiliar 
to  girls  in  the  age  of  transition,  have  made  way  for  the  har- 
monious freshness  and  grace  of  a  newly  blown  flower.  But 
she  has  not  changed:  the  same  bright  blue  eyes  and  smiling 
glance,  the  same  little  straight  nose  which  foims  almost  one 
line  with  the  brow,  with  its  strong  nostrils,  and  the  tiny 
mouth  with  its  brilliant  smile,  the  dimples  on  the  rosy,  trans- 
parent cheeks,  the  same  little  while  hands;  and  for  some 
reason,  as  heretofore,  the  expression,  a  pure  girl,  (its  her 
peculiarly  well.  The  only  new  thing  about  her  is  her  heavy 
blonde  hair,  which  she  wears  in  the  fashion  of  grown-np 
people  :  and  her  young  l)osom.  whose  advent  plainly  delights 
yet  shames  her. 

Although  Liubotchka  has  grown  np  and  always  studied 
with  her,  she  is  quite  q  different  girl  in  every  respect. 

Liubotchka  is  small  of  stature,  and  in  consequence  of  the 
rickets  her  legs  are  still  crooked,  ami  her  figure  is  very  ugly. 
The  only  prett}'  thing  about  her  face  is  her  eyes,  and  they 
are  really  very  beautiful,  —  large  and  black,  and  with  such 
an  indefinably  attractive  expression  of  dignity  and  simplicity 
that  it  is  impossible  not  to  remark  them.  Liubotchka  is  uat' 
m-al  and  simple  in  every  thing,  (ivatenka  does  not  wish  to  be 
like  any  one  else  in  any  respect. \  Liubotchka's  gaze  is  al- 
ways straight  forward  ;  and  sometimes  she  fixes  her  great 
black  eyes  on  a  person,  and  kee[)s  them  there  so  long  that 
she  is  reproved  and  told  that  it  is  not  polite. 

Katenka,  on  the  other  hand,  droi)s  her  eyelashes,  draws 
her  lids  together,  and  declares  that  she  is  short-sighted, 
though  I  know  very  well  that  her  sight  is  perfectly  good. 
Liubotchka  does  not  like  to  attitudinize  before  strangers  ; 
and  when  any  of  tiie  guests  begin  to  kiss  her,  she  pouts,  and 


186  лот  001). 

says  lliat  slio  cannot  rmluie  soifhnent.  Kutenka.  on  the  oon- 
tiary,  I)ooomcs  paitionlnrly  nffoetionntc  with  Minii  in  the 
presence  of  gncsts,  пп({  loves  to  promenade  in  the  hull,  in 
the  enil)race  of  some  Д1г1.  Liiibotchkn  is  a  tenil)le  hmniier ; 
and  sometimes,  in  outburst  of  merriment,  she  fiouiislies  her 
hands,  and  runs  about  the  room.  Katenka,  on  the  con- 
tiary,  covers  lier  mouth  with  Ium-  hands  or  her  handkerchief 
when  she  begins  t<j  laus^h.  Liubotchka  is  always  di'cadfully  , 
2;lad  when  she  succeeds  in  lalkuis  with  a  grown-up  man,  and 
declaies  that  she  Avill  certainly  many  a  hussar;  but  Katenka 
says  that  all  men  are  hateful  to  her.  that  she  will  never 
n)ari  V,  and  becomes  quite  a  different  girl  when  a  man  speaks 
to  hei .  just  as  though  she  were  afraid  of  something.  Liu- 
botchka is  forever  offended  with  Mimi  because  they  lace  her 
ii[)  so  tight  in  corsets  that  she  '"can't  breathe,"  and  she  is 
fond  of  catuig  ;  but  Katenka.  on  the  other  hand,  often  thrusts 
her  finger  under  the  point  of  her  bodice,  and  shows  us  how 
loose  it  is  for  her,  and  she  eats  very  little.  Liubotchka 
loves  to  draw  heads,  but  Katenka  draws  only  flowers  and 
butterflies.  Liubotchka  i>lays  Field's  concertos  perfectly, 
and  some  of  Beethoven's  sonatas.  Katenka  plays  varia- 
tions and  waltzes,  retards  the  time,  i^ounds,  uses  the  pedal 
incessantly;  and  before  she  begins  to  pla}'  any  thing,  she 
stiikes  three  ari)eggi()  chords. 

lint   Katenka.  according  to  my  opinion   then,    was   much 
июге  like  an  adult,  and  therefore  she  pleased  me  far  more. 


BOYHOOD.  187 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

PAPA. 

Рлрл  had  been  particularly  gay  since  Volodya's  entrance 
to  tlie  universily,  and  comes  to  dine  with  grandmamma  much 
ofteuer  than  nsual.  Moreover,  the  cause  of  his  cheerfulness, 
as  I  have  learned  from  Nikolai,  consists  in  the  fact  that  he  has 
луоп  a  remarkably  large  amount  of  money  of  late.  It  even 
haijpens  that  he  sometimes  comes  to  us  in  the  evening  liefore 
going  to  his  chib,  sits  down  at  the  piano,  gathers  us  all  about 
him,  and  sings  gypsy  songs,  accomi)anying  them  by  stamping 
iiis  feet  in  their  soft  shoes  (he  cannot  bear  heels,  and  never 
Avears  them) .  And  then  the  rapture  of  his  favorite  Liubotchka, 
on  her  side,  who  adores  him,  is  worth  seeing.  ^Sometimes 
he  comet;  to  the  schoolroom,  and  listens  with  a  stern  counte- 
nance while  I  recite  my  lessons  ;  but  I  perceive,  from  the 
occasional  words  with  which  he  endeavors  to  set  me  right, 
tluit  lie  is  but  badly  acquainted  with  Avhat  I  am  learning. 
Sometimes  he  gives  us  a  sly  wink,  and  makes  signs  to  us, 
when  grandmamma  begins  to  grumble  and  get  into  a  rage 
with  everybody  without  cause.  "  Now  it's  our  turn  to  catch 
it,  children,"  he  says  afterwards.  On  the  whole,  he  has 
descended  somewhat  in  my  eyes  from  the  unapproachable 
height  upon  which  my  childish  imagination  had  placed  him. 
I  kiss  his  large  white  hand,  with  the  same  feeling  of  genuine 
love  and  respect ;  but  I  already  permit  myself  to  think  of 
him,  to  pass  judgment  on  his  acts,  and  thoughts  occur  to  me 
in  regard  to  him  which  frighten  me.  Never  shall  I  forget  one 
circumstance  which  inspired  many  such  thoughts  in  me,  and 
caused  me  mucii  moral  suffering. 

Once,  late  in  the  evening,  he  entered  the  drawing-room,  iu 
his  black  dress-coat  and  white  waistcoat,  in  order  to  carry 
off  Volodya  with  him  to  a  l)all.  The  latter  w^чs  dressing  \л 
his  own  room  at  t!ie  time.  Grandmother  was  wait  nig  ni  he;' 
bedroou)  for  Volodya  to  come  and  show  himself  to  her  (she 


,188  BOYHOOD. 

had  a  habit  of  summoning  him  to  her  presence  before  every 
ball,  to  inspect  him,  and  to  bestow  upon  him  her  blessing  and 
instructions) .  In  the  hall,  which  was  lighted  by  one  candle 
only,  JMimi  and  Katenka  were  pacing  to  and  fro  ;  but  Lin- 
botchka  was  seated  at  the  piano,  engaged  in  memorizing 
Field's  .Second  Concerto,  which  was  one  of  mamma's  favorite 
pieces. 

Never,  in  auj^  one  whatever,  have  I  met  such  an  irtimate 
likeness  as  existed  between  my  sister  and  my  mother?  This 
likeness  consisted  not  in  face,  nor  form,  but  in  some  intan- 
gible quality,  —  in  her  hands,  in  her  manner  of  walking,  in 
peculiarities  of  voice,  and  in  certain  expressions.  When 
Liubotchka  got  angry,  and  said,  "  It  won't  be  allowed  for  a 
whole  age,"  she  pronounced  the  words,  a  whole  age,  which 
mamma  was  also  accustomed  to  use,  so  that  it  seemed  as  if 
one  heard  them  lengthened,  who-o-le  a-ge.  But  the  likeness 
was  still  more  remarkable  in  her  playing  on  the  piano,  and 
in  all  her  wa3^s  connected  with  this.  .She  adjusted  her  dress 
in  exactly  the  wa}',  and  turned  her  pages  from  above  with 
her  left  hand,  and  pounded  the  keys  with  her  fist  from  vexa- 
tion when  she  was  long  in  conquering  a  difflrult  passage, 
and  said,  "  Ah,  heavens  !  "  and  she  had  that  same  indescrib- 
able tenderness  and  accuracy  of  execution,  that  b,eautiful 
execution  like  Field,  which  is  so  well  called  jeu  perM,  and 
whose  charm  all  the  hocus-pocus  of  newer  pianists  cannot 
make  one  forget. 

Papa  entered  the  room  with  swift,  short  steps,  and  Avent 
up  to  Liubotchka,  who  stopped  playing  when  she  saw  him. 

"  No,  go  on  playing,  Liuba,  go  on,"  said  he,  putting  her 
back  in  her  seat :  "  you  know  how  I  love  to  hear  you." 

Liubotchka  continued  her  i)laying,  and  papa  sat  opposite 
her  for  a  long  time,  supporting  his  head  on  his  hand  ;  then 
he  gave  his  shoulders  a  sudden  twitch,  rose,  and  began  to 
pace  the  room.  Every  time  that  he  approached  the  piano, 
he  paused,  and  looked  intently  at  Liubotchka.  I  perceived, 
from  his  movements  and  his  manner  of  walking,  that  he  was 
excited.  After  traversing  the  room  several  times,  he  paused 
behind  Liubotchka's  seat,  kissed  her  black  hair,  and  then, 
turning  away,  he  pursued  his  walk.  When  Liubotchka  had 
finished  her  piece,  and  Avent  up  to  him  with  the  question, 
"■  Is  it  pretty?  "  he  took  her  head  silently  in  his  hands,  and 
began  to  kiss  her  brow  and  eyes  with  such  tenderness  as  I 
had  never  seen  him  display. 


BOYHOOD.  189 

"Ah,  lieaA'ens  !  j'ou  are  weeping!  "  said  LinV)otclika,  all 
at  once  dropping  the  chain  of  his  watch,  and  fixing  her  great, 
surprised  eyes  on  his  face.  "  Forgive  me,  dear  papa  :  1  had 
quite  forgotten  that  that  was  mamma's  p/ece." 

"  No,  my  dear,  play  it  as  often  as  possible,"  he  said  in  a 
voice  which  quivered  with  emotion  ;  "if  30U  only  knew  how 
good  it  is  for  me  to  weep  with  your  "  — 

He  kissed  her  once  more,  and,  endeavoring  to  overcome 
his  emotion,  he  twitched  his  shoulders,  and  went  out  of  the 
door  which  led  to  the  corridor  and  Volodya's  room. 

"■  Waldemar  !  AVill  you  be  ready  soon?  "  he  cried,  halting 
midway  in  the  corridor.  At  that  moment,  Mascha  the  maid 
passed  him,  and,  seeing  the  master,  she  dropped  her  eyes, 
and  tried  to  avoid  him.  He  stopped  her.  "  You  grow 
prettier  and  prettier,"  he  said,  bending  over  her. 

Mascha  blushed,  and  drooped  her  head  still  lower.  "  Per- 
mit me,"  she  whispered. 

"Waldemar,  are  you  nearly  read}'?"  repeated  papa, 
twitching  himself  and  coughing,  when  Mascha  passed,  and 
he  caught  sight  of  me. 

I  love  my  father ;  but  the  mind  of  man  exists  independ- 
ently of  the  heart,  and  often  mixes  within  itself  thoughts 
which  are  insulting  to  him,  with  feelings  both  incomprehen- 
sible and  stern  concerning  him.  And  such  thoughts  come  to 
me,  although  I  strive  to  drive  them  away. 


100  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER  xxm. 

GRANDMAMMA. 

Grandmamma  grows  weaker  from  clay  to  day  ;  her  bell, 
Gasr-ha's  grumbling  voice  and  the  slamming  of  doors  are 
heard  more  frequentl}'  in  lier  room,  and  she  no  longer  receives 
us  in  the  library  in  her  reclining-chair,  but  in  her  bedroom  in  her 
high  bed  with  its  lace-trimmed  pillows.  I  perceive,  on  salut- 
ing her,  that  there  is  a  pale,  з-ellowish,  shining  swelling  on  her 
hand,  and  that  oppressive  odor  in  the  chamber  which  I  had 
observed  йл'е  j'ears  before  in  mamma's  room.  The  doctor 
comes  to  the  house  three  times  a  day,  and  several  consulta- 
tions have  been  held.  But  her  character,  her  haughty  and 
ceremonious  intercourse  with  all  members  of  the  household, 
particularly  with  papa,  is  not  altered  in  the  least ;  she  enun- 
ciates her  words,  elevates  her  brows,  and  says,  "  my  dear,"  ^ 
in  exactly  the  same  manner  as  usual. 

But,  for  several  days  now,  we  have  not  been  admitted  to 
her  ;  and  once  in  the  morning  St.  Jerome  proposes  to  me  that 
I  shajl  go  to  ride  with  Liubotchka  and  Katenka  during  lesson 
hours.  Although  I  notice,  as  I  take  my  seat  in  the  sleigh, 
that  the  street  in  front  of  grandmamma's  windows  is  strewn 
with  straw,  and  that  several  people  in  blue  oA-ercoats  are 
standing  about  our  gate,  I  cannot  in  the  least  understand 
why  I  have  been  sent  to  ride  at  this  unusual  hour.  During 
our  entire  ride  on  that  day,  Liubotchka  and  I  are,  for  some 
reason,  in  that  particularly  cheerful  frame  of  mind  when 
every  occurrence,  ever}'  word,  every  motion,  excites  one's 
laughter. 

A  carrier  crosses  the  road  at  a  trot,  holding  on  to  his 
elbows,  and  we  laugh.  A  ragged  л'апка-  OA'ertakes  our 
sleigh  at  a  gallop,  flourishing  the  ends  of  his  reins,  and  we 
shout  with  laughter.  Philip's  knout  has  caught  in  the  run- 
ners of  the  sleigh;    he  turns  around,   and    says,  "Alas!" 

5  ,1/Ьг  mihtii,  equivalent  to  топ  c/ter,  and  not  always  a  term  of  eiuleainieut. 
"  Cabman. 


BornooD.  191 

and  we  die  with  laughter.  Mimi  reraarks,  with  a  face  of 
displeasui'e,  that  onh'  stvpid  i^Goiile  huigh  without  cause  ;  and 
Liubotchka,  all  rosy  with  the  strain  of  repressed  laughter, 
casts  a  sidelong  glance  at  me.  Our  e^'es  meet,  and  we  break 
out  into  such  Homeric  laughter,  that  the  tears  come  to  our 
eyes,  and  we  are  in  no  condition  to  repress  the  bursts  of  mer- 
riment which  ai'C  suffocating  us.  AVe  have  no  sooner  (juieted 
di)wn  to  some  extent,  than  1  glance  at  Liui)otchka,  and  utter 
a  [)rivate  little  word  which  has  been  in  fashion  for  some  time 
among  us,  and  which  always  calls  forth  a  laugh  ;  and  again 
we  break  out. 

On  our  return  home,  I  have  but  just  opened  my  mouth 
in  order  to  make  a  very  fine  grimace  at  Liubotchka,  when 
my  eyes  are  startled  by  the  black  cover  of  a  coffin  leaning 
against  one  half  of  our  entrance  door,  and  my  mouth  retains 
its  distorted  shape. 

'•  Your  grandmother  is  dead,"  says  St.  Jerome,  coming  to 
meet  us  with  a  pale  face. 

During  the  whole  time  that  grandmamma's  body  remains 
in  the  house,  I  experience  au  oppressive  feeling,  a  fear  of 
death,  as  if  the  dead  body  were  alive,  and  unpleasantly 
reminding  me  that  I  must  die  some  time,  —  a  feeling  which  it 
is  usual,  for  some  reason,  to  confound  with  grief.  I  do  not 
mourn  for  grandmamma,  and,  in  fact,  there  can  hardh'  be 
an}'  one  who  sincerely  mourns  her.  Although  the  house  is 
full  of  mourning  visitors,  no  one  sorrows  for  her  death, 
except  one  individual,  whose  wild  grief  impresses  me  in  au 
indescribable  manner.  And  this  person  is  Gascha,  the  maid. 
She  goes  oft'  to  the  garret,  locks  herself  up  there,  weeps  inces- 
santly, curses  herself,  tears  her  hair,  will  not  listen  to  any 
advice,  and  declares  that  death  is  the  only  consolation  left 
for  her  after  the  death  of  her  beloved  mistress. 

I  repeat  once  more,  that  inconsistency  in  matters  of  feeling 
is  the  most  trustworthy  sign  of  genuineness. 

Grandmother  is  no  more,  but  memories  and  various  re- 
marks about  her  still  live  in  her  house.  Tliese  remarks  refer 
especialh'  to  the  will  which  she  made  before  her  end,  and 
the  contents  of  which  no  one  knows,  with  the  exception  of 
her  executor,  Prince  1л'ап  Ivanitch.  1  observe  some  excite- 
ment among  grandmamma's  people,  and  I  frequently  over- 
hear remarks  as  to  who  will  become  whose  propt^rty  ;  and  I 
must  confess  that  I  tliink,  with  involuntary  joy,  )t  the  fact 
that  we  shall  receive  a  legacy. 


192  BOYHOOD. 

At  the  end  of  six  weeks,  Nikolai,  wlio  is  tlie  daily  псч'з- 
paper  of  our  estalilislnnent,  informs  me  that  gi'andmamma 
has  l^ft  all  her  proi)erty  to  Liii!)Otchka,  intrusting  the  guard- 
ianship until  her  marriage,  not  to  papa,  but  to  Triuee  Ivuu 
Ivanitch. 


BOYHOOD.  193 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


Only  a  few  months  remain  before  my  entrance  to  the  nni- 
versit}^  I  am  studying  well.  I  not  only  await  m}'  teachers 
without  terror,  but  even  feel  a  certain  pleasure  in  my  lessons. 

I  am  cheerful.  I  can  recite  the  lesson  I  have  learned, 
clearly  and  accurateh'.  I  am  preparing  for  the  mathematical 
facult}^ ;  and  this  choice,  to  tell  the  truth,  has  been  made  by 
me  simpl}'  because  the  words,  sinuses,  tangents,  differentials, 
integrals,  and  so  forth,  please  me  extremely. 

I  am  much  shorter  of  stature  than  Volodj^a,  broad-shoul- 
dered and  fleshy,  homelv  as  ever,  and  worried  about  it  as 
usual.  1  try  to  appear  original.  One  thing  consoles  me  : 
that  is,  that  papa  once  said  of  me  that  I  had  a  sensible  x>hiz, 
and  I  am  fully  convinced  of  it. 

8t.  Jerome  is  satisfied  with  me  ;  autl  I  not  oulj'  do  not 
hate  him,  but,  when  he  occasionally  remarks  that  with  my 
gifts  and  my  mind  it  is  a  shame  that  I  do  not  do  thus  and  so, 
it  even  seems  to  me  that  I  love  him. 

My  observations  on  the  maids'  room  ceased  long  ago  ;  I 
am  ashamed  to  hide  myself  behind  a  door,  and,  moreover, 
my  conviction  that  Mascha  loves  Vasili  has  cooled  me  some- 
what, I  must  confess.  Vasili's  marriage,  the  permission  for 
лу1пс11,  at  his  request,  I  obtain  from  papa,  effects  a  final  cure 
of  this  uuhappy  passion  in  me. 

When  the  young  2xur  come,  with  bonbons  on  a  tra}',  to 
thank  pajja,  and  Mascha  in  a  blue-rib])oned  cap,  kissing  each 
of  us  on  the  shoulder,  also  returns  tlianks  to  all  of  us  for 
something  or  other.  I  am  conscious  onl}^  of  the  rose  pomade 
on  her  hair,  but  not  of  the  least  emotion. 

On  the  whole,  1  am  beginning  gradually  to  recover  from 
my  b93'ish  follies  ;  with  the  excei)tion,  however,  of  the  chief 
one,  Avhich  is  still  futed  to  cause  ше  much  injury  in  life,  — 
my  tendency  to  meta[)hysics. 


194  BOYHOOD. 


■\' 


^? 


CHAPTER   XXV. 

volodya's  friends. 

Although  in  the  company  of  Volod3'a's  aeqnaintancos  I 
played  a  rdle  which  wounded  my  self-love,  I  Uked  to  sit  in 
his  room  when  he  had  visitors,  and  silently  observe  all  that 
took  place  there. 

The  most  freqent  of  all  Volodya's  guests  were  Adjutant 
Dubkoff,  and  a  student,  Prince  N'ekliliudoff.  Dubkotf  was  a 
small,  muscular,  dark-complexioned  man,  no  longer  in  his 
first  youth,  and  rather  short-legged,  but  not  bad-looking,  and 
always  gay.  He  was  one  of  those  narrow-minded  persons 
to  whom  their  own  narrow-mindedness  is  particularly  agree- 
able, who  are  not  capable  of  viewing  subjects  from  different 
sides,  and  who  are  continually  allowing  themselves  to  be 
carried  away  with  something.  The  judgment  of  such  people 
is  one-sided  and  erroneous,  but  always  open-hearted  and 
captivating.  Even  their  narrow  egotism  seems  j)ardonable 
and  attractive,  for  some  reason.  Besides  this,  Dubkoff 
possessed  a  double  charm  for  Volodya  and  me,  —  a  military 
exterior,  and,  most  of  all,  the  age,  with  which  young  people 
have  a  habit  of  confounding  their  ideas  of  what  is  comme  il 
f((ut,  which  is  very  higiily  prized  during  these  years.  More- 
over, Dubkoff  reall}'  was  what  is  called  a  man  comme  il  faut. 
One  thing  displeased  me  ;  and  that  was,  that  Volodya  seemed 
at  times  to  be  ashamed,  in  his  presence,  of  my  most  innocent 
acts,  and,  most  of  all,  my  youth. 

Nekhlindoff  was  not  handsome  :  little  gi'ay  eyes,  a  low, 
rough  forehead,  disproportionately  long  arms  and  legs,  could 
not  be  called  beautiful  features.  The  only  handsome  thing 
about  him  was  his  unnsuall}^  lofty  stature,  the  delicate  color- 
ing of  his  face,  and  his  very  fine  teeth.  But  his  countenance 
acquired  such  a  character  of  originality  and  energy  from  his 
narrow,  brilliant  eyes,  and  the  expression  of  his  smile  which 
changed  from  sternness  to  childish  indefiniteuess,  that  it  was 
impobsibL;  not  to  take  note  of  him. 


BOYHOOD.  195 

He  was,  it  appeared,  excessivel}'  modest,  for  every  trifle 
made  him  flush  up  to  his  л'егу  ears  ;  but  his  shyness  did  not 
resemble  mine.  The  more  he  reddened,  the  more  determina- 
tion did  his  face  express.  He  seemed  angry  with  himself 
for  his  weakness.  Although  he  seemed  very  friendl}'  with 
Du1)koff  and  Volod3'a,  it  was  worthy  of  note  that  chance  alone 
had  connected  him  with  them.  Their  views  were  entirely 
dift'erent.  Volod3'a  and  Uubkotf  seemed  afraid  of  every  thing 
which  even  resembled  serious  discussion  and  feeling  ;  Nekh- 
liudoff,  on  the  contrary,  was  an  enthusiast  in  the  highest 
degree,  and  often  entered  into  discussion  of  philosophical 
questions  and  of  feelings,  in  spite  of  ridicule.  Volodya  and 
Dul)koff  were  fond  of  talking  about  the  objects  of  their  love 
(and  they  fell  in  love,  all  of  a  sudden,  with  several,  and 
both  with  the  same  persons)  :  Nekhliudoff,  on  the  contrary, 
always  became  seriously  angry  when  they  hinted  at  his  love 
for  a  little  red-haired  girl. 

Volodya  and  Dubkoff  often  permitted  themselves  to  make 
sport  of  their  relatives  :  Nekhliudoff,  on  the  contrary,  could 
be  driven  quite  l>eside  himself  by  uncomplimentary  allusions 
to  his  aunt,  for  whom  he  cherished  a  sort  of  rapturous  rev- 
erence. Volodya  and  Dubkoff  used  to  go  off  somewhere 
after  supper  without  Nekhliudoff',  and  they  called  him  a  pretty 
little  girl. 

Prince  Nekhliudoff  impressed  me  from  the  first  by  his  con- 
versation as  well  as  by  his  appearance.  But  although  1  found 
much  in  his  tastes  that  was  common  to  mine,  —  or  perhaps 
just  for  that  reason,  —  the  feeling  with  which  he  inspired  me 
when  I  saw  him  for  the  first  time  was  extremely  hostile. 

I  was  displeased  by  his  quick  glance,  his  firm  voice,  his 
haughty  look,  but  most  of  all  by  tlie  utter  indifference  towards 
me  which  he  exhibited.  Often,  during  a  conversation,  1  had 
a  terrible  desire  to  contradict  him  ;  I  wanted  to  quarrel  with 
him  to  punish  him  for  his  pride,  to  show  him  that  I  was  sen- 
8il)le,  alllK^ugh  he  would  not  pay  the  slightest  attention  to 
me.     Diffidence  restrained  me. 


196  BOYHOOD. 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

DISCUSSIONS. 

A^'oLODYA  was  Ij'iiig  with  his  feet  on  the  divan,  and  leaning 
on  his  elbow  ;  he  Avas  engaged  in  reading  a  French  romance, 
when  I  went  to  his  room  after  my  evening  lessons  according 
to  cnstom.  He  raised  his  head  for  a  second  to  glance  at  me, 
and  again  turned  to  his  reading  ;  the  most  simple  and  nat- 
ural movement  possible,  but  it  made  me  blush.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  his  glance  expressed  the  question  луЬу  I  had  come 
there  ;  and  his  hasty  bend  of  the  head,  a  desire  to  conceal 
from  me  the  meaning  of  the  glance.  This  tendency  to  at- 
tribute significance  to  the  simplest  movement  constituted  one 
of  my  characteristic  traits  at  that  age.  I  walked  up  to  the 
table,  and  took  a  book  ;  but  before  I  began  to  read  it,  it 
occuri'ed  to  me  how  ridiculous  it  was  not  to  say  any  thing  to 
each  other,  when  we  had  not  seen  each  other  all  daj'. 

"  Shall  3'ou  be  at  home  this  evening?  " 

"I  don't  know.     AVhy?" 

"  Because,"  said  I,  perceiving  I  could  not  start  a  conver- 
sation.    I  took  my  book,  and  began  to  read. 

It  >vas  strange  that  Volodya  and  I  would  pass  whole  hours 
ill  silence,  face  to  face,  but  that  it  required  only  the  presence 
of  a  third  person,  even  if  taciturn,  to  start  the  most  interest- 
ing and  varied  discussions.  We  felt  that  we  knew  each 
other  too  well ;  and  too  intimate  or  too  slight  knowledge  of 
each  other  prevents  approacli. 

''Is  V'olodya  at  home?"  said  Dubkotf's  voice  in  the 
vestibule. 

"Yes,"  said  Volodya,  lowering  his  feet,  and  laying  his 
book  on  the  table. 

Dubkotf  and  Nekhliudoff  entered  the  room  in  their  coats 
and  hats. 

"■  Wiiat  do  you  say,  Volodya?  shall  we  go  to  the  theatre?  " 

"  No,  I  don't  want  to,"  replied  Volodya,  turuhig  red. 


BOYnOOD.  197 

"  Well,  that's  an  idea !     Pray  let  us  go." 

"  I  haven't  any  ticket." 

"You  can  get  as  many  tickets  as  ^юи  want  at  the  en- 
trance." 

"  "Wait,  I'll  come  directl3%"  said  Volodya,  yielding,  and 
he  left  the  room  with  a  twitcli  of  his  shoulders. 

I  knew  tliat  Volodya  wanted  very  mucli  to  go  to  the 
theatre,  whither  Dul)koff  invited  him  ;  that  he  only  refused 
because  he  had  no  money  ;  and  that  he  had  gone  to  borrow 
five  rubles  of  the  butler  until  his  next  instalment  of  allowance 
became  due. 

"How  are  3'ou,  Diplomat V  said  Dubkoff,  giving  me  his 
hand. 

Volodya's  friends  called  me  the  diplomat,  because  once, 
after  a  dinner  with  my  grandmother,  in  speaking  of  our 
future,  she  had  said,  in  their  presence,  that  Volodya  was  to 
be  a  soldier,  and  that  she  hoped  to  see  me  a  diplomat,  in  a 
black  dress-coat,  and  with  my  hair  dressed  a  la  coq,  which, 
according  to  her  views,  constituted  an  indispensable  part  of 
the  dii)lomatic  profession. 

"  AVhere  has  Volod3\4  gone?  "  Nekhliudoff  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  replied,  reddening  at  the  thought  that 
they  probably  guessed  why  Volodya  had  quitted  the  room. 

"  He  can't  have  any  money!  is  that  so?  oh.  Diplomat ! " 
he  added  with  conviction,  displaying  his  smile,  "  I  haven't 
any  money  either  ;  have  you,  Dubkoff?  " 

"  We  shall  see,"  said  Dubkoff,  pulling  out  his  purse,  and 
very  carefull}-  feeling  a  few  bits  of  small  change  with  his 
short  fingers.  "Here's  a  five-kopek  bit,  and  here's  a  twenty- 
kopek  piece,  and  f-f-f-f-u  !  "  said  he,  making  a  comical  ges- 
ture with  his  hand. 

At  that  moment  Volodya  entered  the  room. 

"AVell,  shall  we  go?" 

"  No." 

"How  ridiculous  you  are!"  said  Nekhliudoff.  "Why 
don't  you  say  that  you  haven't  any  money?  Take  ni}'  ticket 
if  3'ou  like." 

"  But  what  will  3'ou  do?  " 

"  He  will  go  to  his  cousin's  box,"  said  Dubkoff. 

"  No,  I  will  not  go  at  all." 

"Why?" 

"  Because,  as  you  know,  I  don't  like  to  sit  in  a  box." 

"Why?" 


198  BOYHOOD. 

"  I  don't  like  it ;  it  makes  me  feel  awkward." 

"  The  same  old  thing  again  !  1  don't  understand  how  3'ou 
can  feel  awkward  where  every  one  is  glad  to  have  you.  It's 
absurd,  my  dear  fellow." 

"  What  am  I  to  do,  if  I  am  timid?  I  am  convinced  that 
you  have  never  blushed  in  your  life,  but  1  do  it  every  moment 
for  the  veriest  trifles,"  turning  crimson  as  he  spoke. 

"  Do  you  know  the  cause  of  your  timidity?  An  excess  of 
self-love,  my  dear  fellow,"  said  Dubkoff  in  a  patronizing 
tone. 

"An  excess  of  self-love,  indeed!"  said  Nekhliudoff, 
touched  to  the  quick.  "On  the  contrary,  it  is  because  I 
have  too  little  self-love :  it  seems  to  me  that  things  displease 
and  bore  me  —  because  ' '  — 

"Dress  yourself,  Volod^'a,"  said  Dubkoif,  seizmg  hnn  by 
the  shoulders,  and  pulling  off  his  coat.  "  Ignat,  dress  your 
master !  " 

"  Because,  it  often  happens  to  me  "  —  went  on  Nekhliudoff. 

But  Dubkoff'  was  no  longer  listening  to  him.  "  Tra-la- 
ta-ra-ra-la-la,"  and  he  hummed  an  air. 

"You  have  not  escaped,"  said  Nekhliudoff;  "and  I  will 
prove  to  you  that  shyness  does  not  proceed  from  self-love 
at  all." 

"  You  will  prove  it  if  you  come  with  us." 

"  I  have  said  that  I  Avould  not  go." 

"  AVell,  stay,  then,  and  prove  it  to  the  diplomat;  and  he 
shall  tell  us  when  we  come  back." 

"I  will  prove  it,"  retorted  Nekhliudoff,  with  childish  ob- 
stinacy ;  "  but  come  back  as  soon  as  you  can." 

"  What  do  you  think?  am  1  vain?  "  he  said,  seating  him- 
self beside  me. 

Although  I  had  formed  an  opinion  on  that  point,  I  was  so 
intimidated  by  this  unexpected  appeal,  that  I  could  not  an- 
swer him  very  promptly. 

"  Yes,  I  think  so,"  I  said,  feeling  that  my  voice  trembled 
and  the  color  covered  my  face  at  the  thought  that  the  time 
had  come  to  show  him  that  /  was  mtelligent,  —  "I  think 
that  every  man  is  vain,  and  that  every  thing  a  man  does  is 
done  from  vanity." 

"What  is  vanity,  in  your  opinion?"  said  Nekhliudoff, 
smiling  somewhat  disdainfully,  as  it  struck  me. 

"Vanity  —  self-love" — said  I,  "is  the  conviction  that  I 
am  better  and  wiser  than  anybody  else." 


BOYHOOD.  199 

''  But  how  can  everybody  entertain  that  conviction  ?  " 

"  1  do  not  know  whether  I  am  correct  or  not,  l)ut  no  one 
except  myself  confesses  to  it :  I  am  persuaded  tluit  1  am 
wiser  than  any  one  in  the  world,  and  I  am  persuaded  that 
you  are  convinced  of  the  same  thing." 

"  No,  I  am  the  first  to  say  of  myself,  that  I  have  met 
people  whom  I  have  acknowledged  to  be  wiser  than  myself," 
said  Nekhliudoff. 

"•  Impossible,"  I  answered  with  conviction. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  "  said  Nekhliudoff,  looking  in- 
tently at  me. 

And  then  an  idea  occurred  to  me,  to  which  I  immediately 
gaA^e  utterance. 

"  I  will  prove  it  to  you.  AVhy  do  we  love  ourselves  moie 
than  others?  Because  we  consider  ourselves  better  than 
others,  more  worthy  of  love.  If  we  considered  others  better 
than  ourselves,  then  we  should  love  them  more  than  our- 
selves, and  that  never  happens.  Even  if  it  does  happen,  I 
am  riglit  all  the  same,"  I  added,  with  an  involuntary  smile 
of  vanity. 

Nekhliudoff  remained  silent  for  a  moment. 

' '  I  never  thought  that  you  were  so  clever !  "  he  said  with 
such  a  sweet,  good-natured  smile,  that  it  seemed  to  me  all  at 
once  that  I  was  perfectly  happy. 

Praise  acts  so  powerfully  not  only  on  the  feelings  but  on 
the  mind  of  man,  that  under  its  pleasant  influence  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  became  much  more  clever,  and  ideas  occurred  to 
me  one  after  the  other  лvith  unusual  swiftness.  From  vanity 
we  passed,  without  noticing  it,  to  love  ;  and  discussion  on  this 
theme  seemed  inexhaustible.  Although  our  judgments  might 
seem  utter  nonsense  to  an  uninteresied  listener, — so  unin- 
telligible and  one-sided  were  the}',  —  they  possessed  a  lofty 
significance  for  us.  Our  souls  were  so  agreeal)ly  attuned  in 
harmony,  that  the  slightest  touch  upon  any  chord  in  one  found 
an  echo  in  thc^  other.  We  took  pleasure  in  this  mutual  echo- 
ing of  the  divers  chords  which  we  touched  in  our  discussion. 
It  seemed  to  us  that  time  and  words  were  lacking  to  express 
to  each  other  the  thouahts  which  souoht  utterance. 


200  вот  001). 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

THE    BEGINNING    OF    FRIENDSHIP. 

From  that  time,  rather  strange  but  very  agreeable  rela- 
tions existed  l)et\veen  nie  and  Dmitri  Nekhliudoff.  In  the 
presence  of  strangers,  he  paid  hardly  any  attention  to  me  ; 
but  as  soon  as  we  chanced  to  be  alone,  we  seated  ourselves 
in  some  quiet  nook,  and  began  to  discuss,  forgetful  of  every 
thing,  and  perceiving  not  how  the  time  flew. 

We  talked  of  the  future  life,  and  of  the  arts,  and  of  the 

igo\'ernment  service,  and  marriage,  and  bringing  up  children  ; 

I  and  it  never  entered  our  heads    that  all  we  said   was  the 

{most  frightful  nonsense.  It  never  occurred  to  us,  because 
the  nonsense  we  talked  was  wise  and  nice  nonsense  ;  and 
•in  youth  one  still  prizes  wisdom,  and  believes  in  it.  In 
3'outh,  all  the  powers  of  the  soul  are  directed  towards  the 
future  ;  and  that  future  assumes  such  varied,  viA'id,  and  en- 
chanting forms  under  the  influence  of  hope,  founded,  not 
upon  experience  of  the  past,  but  upon  the  fancied  possibili- 
ties of  happiness,  that  the  mere  conceptions  and  dreams  of 
future  bliss  form  a  genuine  happiness  at  that  age,  when 
shared.  In  the  metaphysical  discussions  which  formed  one 
\  of  the  chief  subjects  of  our  conversation,  I  loved  the  mo- 

Vnient  when  thoughts  succeed  each  other  more  and  more 
swiftly,  and,  growing  ever  more  abstract,  finally  attain  such 
a  degree  of  mistiness  that  one  sees  no  possibility  of  express- 
ing them,  and,  supposing  that  one  is  saying  w:hat  he  thinks, 
he  says  something  entirely  difl'erent.  I  loved  the  moment, 
when,  soaring  higher  and  higher  into  the  realms  of  thought, 
one  suddenly  comprehends  all  its  infiniteuess,  and  confesses 
the  impossibility  of  proceeding  farther. 

Once,  during  the  carnival,  Nehkliudoff  was  so  absorbed  in 
various  pleasures,  that,  although  he  came  to  the  house  several 
times  a  day,  he  never  once  spoke  to  me  ;  and  this  so  offended 
me,  that  he  again  seemed  to  me  a  haughty  and  disagreeable 


BOYHOOD.  201 

man.  I  only  waited  for  an  opportiinit}^  to  show  liim  that  I 
did  not  value  his  society  in  the  least,  and  entertained  no 
special  affection  for  him. 

On  the  first  occasion  after  the  carnival  that  he  wanted  to 
talk  to  me,  I  said  that  I  was  obliged  to  prepare  my  lessons, 
and  went  up-stairs  ;  but  a  quarter  of  an  hour  later,  some 
one  opened  the  schoolroom  door,  aucl  Nekhliudoff  entered. 

"  Do  I  disturb  you?"  said  he. 

"  No,"  I  replied,  although  1  wanted  to  say  that  I  really 
was  busy. 

"Then  wh}^  did  you  leave  Volodya's  room?  We  haven't 
had  a  talk  for  a  long  while.  And  1  have  become  so  used  to 
it,  that  it  seems  as  if  something  were  missing." 

My  vexation  vanished  in  a  moment,  and  Dmitri  again 
appeared  the  same  kind  and  chaiuning  man  as  before  in  my 
eyes. 

"•  Yon  probabl^^  know  why  I  went  away,"  said  I. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  replied,  seating  himself  beside  me.  "  But 
if  I  guess  it,  I  cannot  say  why,  but  you  can,"  said  he. 

"I  will  say  it:  I  went  away  because  I  was  angry  with 
5'ou  — not  ^nguy,  but  vexed.  To  speak  plainly,  I  am  always 
afraid  that  you  will  despise  me  because  I  am  still  so  very 
young." 

"  Do  you  know  why  T  Ьал^е  become  so  intimate  with  you?  " 
he  said,  replying  to  my  confession  with  a  good-humored  and 
sensible  smile,  —  "why  I  love  you  more  than  people  with 
Avhom  I  am  better  acquainted,  and  with  whom  1  have  more 
in  connnon?  I  settled  it  at  once.  I  You  have  a  wonderfully 
rare  quality, —  frankness." 

"  Yes,  1  always  say  just  the  ver^-  things  that  I  am  ashamed 
to  acknowledge,"  I  said,  confirming  him,  "  but  only  to  those 
people  whom  I  can  trust." 

"  Yes  ;  but  in  order  to  trust  a  person,  one  must  be  entirely 
friendly  with  him,  and  we  are  not  friends  yet,  Nicolas.  You 
remember  that  we  discussed  friendship  :  in  order  to  be  true 
friends,  it  is  necessar}^  to  trust  one  another." 

"  To  trust  that  what  I  tell  you,  you  will  not  repeat  to  any 
one,"  said  I.  "  But  the  most  important,  the  most  interesting 
thoughts,  are  just  those  which  we  would  not  tell  each  other  for 
any  thing  !  ' ' 

"And  what  loathsome  thoughts!  such  thoughts,  that,  if 
we  knew  that  we  should  be  forced  to  acknowledge  them, 
we  should  never  have  dared  to  think  them. 


202  BOYHOOD. 

"Do  you  know  wliat  idea  has  come  to  me,  Nicolas?" 
he  added,  rising  from  Iiis  thair,  aud  mbbiug  liis  bauds,  wiih 
a  smile.  "i>o  it,  and  j'ou  will  see  how  beneficial  it  will  be 
for  both  of  us.  Let  us  give  our  word  to  coufcss  everj^  thing 
to  each  other :  we  shall  know  each  other,  aud  we  shall  not  be 
ashamed  ;  but,  iu  order  that  we  ma}-  not  fear  strangers,  let 
us  take  a  vow  never  to  say  cmy  thing  to  anybody  about  each 
other.     Let  us  do  this." 

And  we  actually  did  it.  What  came  of  it,  I  shall  relate 
hereafter. 

Karr  has  said,  that,  iu  every  attachment,  there  are  two 
sides  :  one  loves,  while  the  other  permits  himself  to  be  loved  ; 
one  kisses,  the  other  offers  the  cheek.  This  is  perfectly 
correct ;  and  in  our  friendship  I  kissed,  but  Dmitri  offered 
his  cheek :  but  he  was  also  ready  to  kiss  me.  We  loved 
equally,  because  we  knew  aud  \'alued  each  other ;  but  this 
did  not  prevent  his  exercising  an  influence  over  me,  aud 
my  submitting  to  him. 

Of  course,  uuder  the  influence  of  Nekhliudoff,  I  uncon- 
sciousW  adopted  his  \4ew,  the  gist  of  which  consisted  in  an 
entliusiastic  adoration  of  the  ideal  of  virtue,  and  in  a  belief 
that  man  is  inteuded  to  constantly  perfect  himself.  Then 
the  reformation  of  all  manlrind,  the  aunihiiation  of  all 
popular  vices  and  miseries,  appeared  a  practicable  thing.  It 
seemed  very  simple  aud  easy  to  reform  one's  self,  to  acquire 
all  virtues,  and  be  happy. 

But  God  only  knows  whether  these  lofty  aspirations  of 
youth  were  ridiculous,  .and  who  was  to  blame  that  they 
were  not  fulfilled. 


PART  III. -YOUTH. 

A  NOVEL. 


г  ■ 


я 


/ 


9^ 


YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  I. 

WHAT    I    CONSIDER    THE    BEGINNING    OF    YOUTH. 

I  HAVE  said  that  ni}^  friendship  with  Dmitri  revealed  a  new 
view  of  life  to  me,  its  aims  and  bearings.  <^his  view  con- 
sisted  essentially  in  the  belief  that  man's  destiny  is  to  strive 
for  moral  perfection,  and  that  this  perfection  is  easy,  possi- 
ble, and  eternal.  Bnt  hitherto  I  had  revelled  only  in  the  dis- 
covery of  the  new  thoughts  which  sprang  from  this  belief,  and 
in  the  construction  of  brilliant  plans  for  a  moral  and  active 
future  ;  bnt  my  life  went  on  in  the  same  petty,  confused,  and 
idle  fashion. 

The  philanthropic  thoughts  which  I  examined  in  my  con- 
versations with  my  adored  friend  Dmitri,  iconderfid  Mitya  as 
I  called  him  in  a  whisper  to  myself  sometimes,  still  pleased 
my  mind  only,  but  not  m}'  feelings.  But  the  time  arrived 
when  these  thoughts  came  into  my  head  with  such  freshness 
and  force  of  moral  disco\ery,  that  I  was  alarmed  when  I  re- 
flected how  much  time  I  had  wasted  in  ла1п  ;  and  I  wanted  to 
apjily  these  thoughts  immediately,  that  very  second,  to  life, 
with  the  firm  intention  of  never  changing  them. 

And  from  that  time  I  date  the  beginning  of  youth.  At 
that  time  I  was  nearly!  sixteen\  Masters  continued  to  come 
to  me.  St.  Jerome  supervisScl  my  studies,  and  I  was  forced 
unwillingly  to  prepare  for  the  university.  Besides  ray 
studies,  my  occupations  consisted  in  solitar}',  incoherent 
revenes  and  meditation  ;  in  gjnnnastic  exercises  with  a  view 
to  making  mvselTThG  strongest  man  in  the  world  ;  in  roam- 
ing, witliout  any  definite  aim  or  idea,  through  all  the  roouis, 

205 


20G  YOUTH. 

and  particnlarl}'  in  the  corridor  of  tlic  maids'  room  ;  and 
in  gazing  at  myself  in  tliejairrur,  from  whicli  last  occnpa- 
tion,  by  the  way,  I  alwaj's  desisted  with  a  heavy  feeling  of 
sorrow  and  even  of  aversion.  I  was  convinced  that  my  ap- 
pearance was  not  only  plain,  but  I  could  not  even  comfort 
myself  with  the  consolations  usual  in  such  cases.  1  could 
not  say  that  my  face  was  expressive,  intellectual,  and  noble. 
There  was  nothing  expressive  about  it :  the  features  were  of 
the  coarsest,  most  ordinary,  and  homeliest.  My  small  grny 
eyes  were  stupid  rather  than  intelligent,  particularly  when  1 
looked  in  the  mirror.  There  was  still  less  of  maidiness  about 
it.  Although  I  was  not  so  very  diminutive  in  stature,  ar.d 
very  strong  for  my  age,  all  my  features  were  soft,  flabby,  and 
unformed.  There  was  not  even  any  thing  noble  about  it: 
on  the  contrary,  my  face  was  exactl}'  like  that  of  a  common 
peasant  (ynuzhik),  and  I  had  just  such  big  hands  and  feet  i 
and  this  seemed  to  me  at  that  time  very  disgraceful. 


YOUTH.  207 


CHAPTER  II. 

SPRING. 

On  the  year  when  I  entered  the  university,  Easter  fell  so 
late  in  April  that  the  examinations  were  set  for  Quasimodo 
Week,  and  I  was  obliged  to  prepare  for  the  sacrament,  and 
make  my  final  preparations,  during  Passion  Week. 

The  weather  had  been  soft,  warm,  and  cleai"  for  three 
da3's  after  the  wet  snow  which  Karl  Ivanitch  had  been  in 
the  habit  of  calling  "  the  son  follmced  the  father."  Not  a 
lump  of  snow  was  to  be  seen  in  the  streets  ;  dirty  paste  had 
given  place  to  the  wet,  shining  pavements  and  rapid  rivu- 
lets. The  last  drops  were  thawing  from  the  roofs  in  the  sun. 
The  buds  were  swelling  on  the  trees  within  the  enclosures. 
The  path  in  the  court-yard  was  dry.  In  the  direction  of 
the  stable,  past  the  frozen  heaps  of  manure,  and  between  the 
stones  about  the  porch,  the  moss-like  grass  was  beginning  to 
turn  green.  It  was  that  particular  period  of  spring  which 
acts  most  powerfully  upon  the  soul  of  man,  —  the  clear,  full, 
brilliant  but  not  hot  sun,  the  brooks  and  snow-bare  places 
bi'cathing  freshness  to  the  air  ;  and  the  tender  I)lue  sky,  with 
its  long  transparent  clouds.  I  do  not  know  why,  l)ut  it 
seems  to  me  that  the  influence  of  this  first  period  of  birth  of 
the  spring  is  even  more  powerful  and  percei)tible  in  a  great 
city  :  one  sees  less,  but  foresees  more.  I  stood  by  the  win- 
dow, through  луЬо8е  double  frames  the  morning  sun  cast 
dusty  rays  of  light  upon  the  floor  of  the  schoolroom  which 
bored  me  so  intolerably,  solving  along  algebraic  equation  on 
the  l)lackboard.  In  one  hand  I  held  a  soft,  tattered  co|iy 
of  Franker' s  Algebra,  in  the  other  a  small  bit  of  chalk,  with 
which  I  had  already  smeared  both  hands,  my  face,  and  the 
elbows  of  my  coat.  Nikolai,  wearing  an  apron,  and  with 
his  sleeves  rolled  up,  was  chip|)ing  off  the  cement,  and  ex- 
tracting the  nails  of  the  windows  which  opened  on  the  front 
yard.     His  occupation,  and  the  noise  lie  juade,  distracted  my 


208  YOUTH. 

attention.  Besides,  I  was  in  a  very  evil  and  dissatisfied 
state  of  mind.  Nothing  would  go  riglit  with  me.  I  had  made 
a  mistake  at  the  beginning  of  my  calculation,  so  that  I  had 
had  to  begin  all  over  again,  I  had  dropped  the  chalk  twice. 
I  was  conscious  that  my  hands  and  face  were  dirty.  The 
sponge  had  disappeared  somewhere  or  other  ;  the  noise  which 
Nikolai  made  shook  my  nerves  painfully.  I  wanted  to  get 
into  a  rage,  and  growl.  I  flung  aside  the  chalk  and  algebra, 
and  began  to  pace  the  room.  But  I  remembei'cd  that  to-day 
I  must  go  to  confession,  and  that  I  must  refrain  from  all 
evil ;  and  all  at  once  I  fell  into  a  peculiar,  gentle  mood,  and 
approached  Nikolai. 

"  Permit  me  ;  I  will  help  you,  Nikolai,"  said  I,  trying  to 
impart  the  gentlest  of  tones  to  my  voice.  The  thought  that 
I  was  behaving  well,  stifling  my  vexation,  and  helping  hira, 
heightened  this  gentle  disposition  of  mind  still  further. 

The  cement  was  cut  away,  the  nails  removed  ;  but  although 
Nikolai  tugged  at  the  cross-frame  with  all  his  might,  the 
frame  would  not  yield. 

"  If  the  frame  comes  out  immediately  now,  when  I  pull 
on  it,"  I  thought,  "  it  will  signify  that  it  is  a  sin,  and  that  I 
need  not  do  any  more  work  to-day."  The  frame  leaned  to 
one  side,  and  came  out. 

"  Where  is  it  to  be  carried?  "  said  I. 

"If  you  please,  I  will  take  care  of  it  myself,"  replied 
Nikolai,  evidently  amazed  and  seemingly  displeased  with  my 
zeal :  "it  must  not  be  dropped,  but  they  beloiig  in  the  garret 
in  my  room." 

"  I  will  take  care  of  it,"  said  I,  lifting  the  frame. 

It  seems  to  me,  that  if  the  garret  were  two  versts  away,  and 
the  window-frame  were  twice  as  heavy,  I  should  be  very 
much  pleased.  I  wanted  to  torture  myself  by  performing 
this  service  for  Nikolai.  When  I  returned  to  the  room, 
the  tiles  and  the  cones  of  salt  ^  were  already  transferred  to 
the  window-sills,  and  Nikolai  had  brushed  off  the  sand  and 
drowsy  flies  through  the  open  window.  The  fresh,  perfumed 
air  had  alread}'  entered  and  filled  the  room.  From  the  win- 
dow, the  hum  of  the  city  and  the  twittering  of  the  sparrows 
in  the  yard  were  audible. 

1  In  order  to  aid  the  sand,  which  is  placed  between  the  double  windows  to  absorb 
dampness,  little  cones  of  nail  two  or  three  inches  high  are  added,  about  three  to  a 
window.  The  salt  is  put  into  little  paper  moulds  while  damp,  to  give  it  this  conical 
form,  and  the  moulds  are  sometimes  left  also.  Tiles  or  little  bricks  are  often  added, 
like  cases,  between  the  salt,  for  ornament ;  and  provincial  a;slhetes  frequently  add 
or  Bubslitule  little  bunches  ot  artificial  llowers. 


YOUTH.  209 

Every  object  was  brilliantly  illuminated  ;  the  room  had 
grown  cheerful ;  the  light  spring  breeze  fluttered  the  1еал'ез 
of  my  algebra,  and  Nikolai's  hair.  I  approached  the  win- 
dow, sat  down  in  it,  bent  towards  the  yard,  and  began  to 
think. 

►Some  new,  exceedingly  powerful,  and  pleasant  sensation 
penetrated  my  soul  all  at  once.  The  wet  earth,  through 
луЬ1сЬ,  here  and  there,  bright  green  spears  of  grass  with 
yellow  stalks  pushed  their  way ;  the  rivulets,  sparkling  in  the 
sun,  and  whirling  along  little  clods  of  earth  and  shavings  and 
reddening  twigs  of  syringa  with  swollen  buds  which  undulate 
just  beneath  the  window  ;  the  anxious  twittering  of  the  birds 
thronging  this  bush  ;  the  blackish  hedge  wet  with  the  melted 
snow  ;  but  chiefly  the  damp,  fi-agrant  air  and  cheerful  sun, — 
spoke  to  me  intelligibljs  clearly,  of  something  new  and  very 
beautiful,  which,  though  I  cannot  reproduce  it  as  it  told 
itself  to  me,  I_sliall  endeavor  to  repeatjisi  received-it r  every 
thii2g  spoke  to  me  of  beautyj  11а4)4шаейй.,_а1м1д^1а1лШт  said  that 
botji  were  easj^a_nd__possibIa  to_  лпз,.  that  onccould  not  exist 
withmit  the  other,  aud^ej^en^tlial-  bG;wity,-hai>ivii>ess,  and  virtue 
are  one  and  the  same.  .  "How  could  I  fail  to  understand 
this?  How  wicked  I  was  before!  How  happy  1  might  have 
been,  and  how  hai)py  1  may  be  in  the  future  !  "  I  said  to  my- 
self. "■  Ooijst  l)ecome  апоШег  man^is_q^uLckly,  as  quickh'^, 
as  pQs&ibie,  this  very  moment,  and  begju  to  li\:e  differently." 
But,  in  spite  of  this,  I_sti]l_sat  f or  a  lojig^timeJa the  window, 
di:eaming  and  doing  nothing.  Has  it  ever  happened  to  you, 
in  sunnu'-ir,  to  lie  down  to  sleep,  during  the  daytime,  in 
gloomy,  rainy  weather,  and,  waking  up  at  sunset,  to  open 
your  eyes,  to  catch  sight  through  the  wide  square  window, 
from  und.-n'  the  linen  shade  which  swells  ami  beats  its  stick 
against  tlie  window-sill,  of  the  shndy,  purplmg  side  of  the 
lindi'U  alley,  wet  with  rain,  and  the  damp  gai'den  walks, 
illuminated  by  tlie  bright,  slanting  rays  ;  to  suddenly  catvh 
the  sound  of  merry  life  among  the  l)irds  in  the  garden,  and 
to  see  the  insects  which  are  circling  in  the  window  aperture, 
transparent  in  the  sun,  and  Ijecome  conscious  of  the  fra- 
grance of  the  air  after  rain,  and  to  thuik,  "  1  low  shameful 
of  me  to  sleep  away  such  an  evening  !  "  and  then  to  sj)ring 
up  in  haste,  in  order  to  go  to  the  garden  and  rejoice  in  life? 
If  this  has  happened  to  yon,  then  here  is  a  specimen  of  the 
powerful  feeling  whicli  I  experienced  then. 


210  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  III. 


REVERIES. 


"To-pay  I  shall  confess,  I  shall  purify  myself  of  all  my 
sins,"  1  thought,  "and  I  shall  never  commit  any  more." 
(  Here  I  recalled  all  the  sins  Avhich  troubled  me  most.)  "  I 
shall  go  to  church,  without  fail,  every  Sunday,  and  after- 
wards I  shall  read  the  Gospels  for  a  whole  hour ;  and  then, 
out  of  the  white  bank-bill  which  I  shall  receive  every  month 
when  I  enter  the  university,  I  will  be  sure  to  give  two 
rubles  and  a  half  (one-tenth)  to  the  poor,  and  in  such  a 
manner  that  no  one  shall  know  it  —  and  not  to  beggars,  but 
I  will  seek  out  poor  people,  an  oi'phan  or  old  woman,  whom 
no  one  knows  about. 

"  I  shall  have  a  room  to  myself  (  probabl}-  St.  Jerome's), 
and  I  shall  take  care  of  it  myself,  and  keep  it  wonderfully 
clean  ;  and  I  shall  leave  the  man  nothing  to  do  for  me,  for 
he  is  just  the  same  as  I  am.  Tlien  I  shall  go  all  day  to  the 
university  on  foot  (and  if  they  give  me  a  drozhky,  I  shall 
sell  it,  and  give  that  money  also  to  the  poor) ,  and  I  shall 
do  ever}-  thing  with  the  greatest  precision  [лvhat  this  '  every 
thing '  was,  1  could  not  have  told,  in  the  least,  then  ;  but  I 
vividly  realized  and  felt  this  "  every  thing '  in  an  intellectual, 
moral,  and  irreproachable  life].  I  shall  prepare  my  lectures, 
and  even  go  over  the  subjects  beforehand,  so  that  I  shall  be 
at  the  head  in  the  first  course,  and  write  the  dissertation  ; 
in  the  second  course,  I  shall  know  every  thing  beforehand, 
and  they  can  transfer  me  directly  to  the  third  course,  so  that 
at  eighteen  I  shall  graduate  as  first  candidate,  with  two  gold 
medals  ;  then  I  shall  stand  my  examination  for  the  degree  of 
Master,  then  Doctor,  and  I  shall  become  the  leading  savant 
in  Russia  ;  I  may  be  the  most  learned  man  in  Europe,  even." 
"  Vv'oU,  and  afterwards?"  I  asked  myself.  But  here  I 
remc'ubeied  that  these  were  dreams,  —  pride,  sin,  which  I 
shuiu  J  have  to  recount  to  the  priest  that  evening  ;  and  1  went 


YOUTH.  211 

back  to  the  beginning  of  m}'  argument.  "  As  a  preparation 
for  my  lectures,  I  will  walk  out  to  the  Sparrow  Hills  ;  ^  there 
I  will  select  a  spot  Ijeneath  a  tree,  and  read  over  the  lesson. 
Sometimes  I  shall  take  something  to  eat  with  me,  cheese  or 
patties  from  Pedotti,  or  something.  I  shall  rest  myself,  and 
then  I  shall  read  some  good  book,  or  sketch  views,  or  pla}^  on 
some  instrument  ( 1  must  not  fail  to  learn  to  play  the  flute). 
Then  she  will  also  take  a  walk  on  the  vSparrow  Hills,  and  some 
day  she  will  come  up  to  me,  and  ask  who  I  am.  And  I  shall 
look  at  her  so  mournfully,  and  say  that  I  am  the  son  of  a 
priest,  and  that  I  am  happy  only  here  when  I  am  alone,  quite, 
quite  alone.  Then  she  will  give  me  her  hand,  and  say  some- 
thing, and  sit  down  beside  me.  Thus  we  shall  come  there 
every  day,  and  we  shall  become  friends,  and  I  shall  kiss  her. 
—  No,  that  is  not  well :  on  the  contrary,  from  this  day  forth, 
I  shall  never  more  look  at  a  woman.  Never,  never  will  I 
go  into  the  maids'  room,  I  will  try  not  to  pass  by  it  even  ; 
and  in  three  years  I  shall  be  free  from  guardianship,  and  I 
shall  marry,  without  fail.  I  shall  take  as  much  exercise  as 
possible  with  gymnastics  every  day,  so  that  when  I  am 
twent}'  I  shall  be  stronger  than  Eappeau.  The  first  day,  I 
will  hold  half  a  pood  ^  in  my  out-stretched  hand  for  five 
minutes ;  on  the  second  day,  twenty-one  pounds ;  on  the 
third  day,  twenty-two  pounds,  and  so  on,  so  that  at  last  I 
can  support  four  poods  in  each  hand,  and  I  shall  be  stronger 
than  any  one  at  court ;  and  when  any  one  undertakes  to 
insult  me,  or  express  himself  disrespectfully  of  hei%  I  will 
take  him  thus,  quite  simply,  by  the  breast,  I  will  lift  him  an 
arshin  or  two  from  the  ground  with  one  hand,  and  only  hold 
him  long  enough  to  let  him  feel  my  power,  and  then  I  will 
release  him.  —  But  this  is  not  well :  no,  I  лу111  not  do  him  any 
harm,  1  will  only  show  him  "  — 

Reproach  me  not  because  the  dreams  of  adolescence  were 

as  childish  as  the  dreams  of  childhood  and  bo3hood.     I  am 

.  convinced  that  if  I  am  fated  to  live  to  extreme  old  age,  and 

1шу  story  follows  my  growth,  as  an  old  man  of  seventy  I  shall 

\di'eam  in  exactl}'  the  same  impossibly  childish  way  as  now. 

I  shall  dream  of  some  cliarming  Marie,  who  will  fall  in  love 

with  me  as  a  toothless  old  mnn,  as  she  loved  Mazeppa  ;  ^  of 

how  my  weak-minded  son  will  suddenly  ])ecome  a  minister, 

througii  some  unusual  circumstance  ;  or  of  how  a  treasure  of 

1  Ilille  near  Moscow.  "  About  twenty  pouuds. 

3  Au  allusiou  to  Fuahkiii's  poem,  "  Poltava." 


212  тоитп. 

millions  will  fall  to  me  all  of  a  sudden.  I  am  convinced  that 
there  is  no  human  being  or  age  which  is  deprived  of  this 
benelicent,  comforting  capacit}-  for  dreaming.  But,  exclusive 
of  the  general  traits  of  impossihilitj^  —  the  witchcraft  of  rev- 
ery,  —  the  dreams  of  each  man  and  of  each  stage  of  growth 
possess  their  own  distinctive  character.  During  that  period 
of  time  which  I  regard  as  the  limit  of  boyhood  and  the  be- 
ginning of  adolescence,  four  sentiments  formed  the  founda- 
tion of  my  dreams:  Ipye  for /<е>',  the  ideal  woman,  of  whom 
I  thought  always  in  the  same  strain,  and  whom  I  expected 
to  meet  somewhere  at  any  moment.  This  she  was  a  little 
like  Sonitchka  ;  a  little  like  Mascha,  Vasili's  wife,  when  she 
washes  the  clothes  in  the  tub  ;  and  a  little  like  the  woman 
with  pearls  on  her  white  neck,  whom  I  saw  in  the  theatre 
л-егу  long  ago,  in  the  box  next  to  ours.  The  second  sentiment 
was'love  of  love..  I  wanted  to  have  ел^ег}'  one  know  and  love 
me.  I  wanted  to  pronounce  my  name,  Nikolai  Irteneff,  and 
have  every  one,  startled  b}'  this  information,  surround  me, 
and  thank  me  for  something.  The  third  feeling  was  the 
hope  of  some  remarkable,  glorious  good  fortune,  —  so  great 
and  firm  that  it  would  boi'der  on  madness.  I  was  so  sure 
that  I  should  become  the  greatest  and  most  distinguished 
man  in  the  world  ver}'  soon,  in  consequence  of  some  ex- 
ti'aordinary  circumstance  or  other,  tliat  I  found  myself  con- 
stantly' in  a  state  of  agitated  expectation  of  something 
euchantingl}'  blissful.  I  was  always  expecting  that  it  teas 
about  to  begin,  and  that  I  was  on  the  point  of  attaining 
whatever  a  man  may  desire  ;  and  I  was  always  hastening 
about  in  all  directions,  supposing  that  it  was  already  begin- 
ning in  tlie  place  where  I  was  not.  The  fourth  and  principal 
feeling  was  disgust  at  myself,  and  remorse,  but  a  remorse 
so  mingled  with  hope  of  bliss  that  there  w^as  nothing  sorrow- 
ful al)Out  it.  It  seemed  to  me  so  easy  and  natural  to  tear 
myself  away  from  all  the  past,  to  reconstruct,  to  forget 
every  thing  which  had  been,  and  to  begin  m}-  life  with  all  its 
relations  quite  anew,  that  the  past  neither  Aveighed  upon  nor 
fettered  me.  I  even  took  {Measure  in  ni}'  repugnance  to  the 
past,  and  began  to  see  it  in  more  sombre  colors  than  it  had 
possessed.  The  blacker  was  the  circle  of  memories  of  the 
past,  the  purer  and  brighter  did  the  pure,  bright  point  of 
the  present  and  the  rainbow  hues  of  the  future  stand  out  in 
relief  against  it.  This  voice  of  remorse,  and  of  passionate 
desii'c   for  [)erfection,  was  the  chief  new  spiritual  sentiment 


YOUTH.  213 

at  that  epoch  of  my  development ;  and  it  marked  a  new  era 
in  my  views  with  regard  to  myself,  to  people,  and  the  world. 
That  beneficent,  cheering  voice  has,  since  then,  so  often  bold- 
ly been  raised,  in  those  sad  hours  when  the  soul  has  silently 
submitted  to  the  weight  of  life's  falsehood  and  vice,  against 
ever}'  untruth,  maliciously  convicting  the  past,  pointing  to 
the  bright  spot  of  the  present  and  making  one  love  it,  and 
promising  good  and  happiness  in  the  future,  —  the  blessed, 
comforting  voice !     >Vilt  thou  ever  cease  to  sound  ? 


214  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

OUR    FAMILY    CIRCLE. 

Papa  was  seldom  at  home  that  spring.  But  when  it  did 
happen,  he  was  extremely  ga}' ;  he  rattled  off  his  faA'orite 
pieces  on  the  piano,  made  eyes  and  invented  jests  about  Mimi 
and  all  of  us,  such  as  that  the  Tzarevitch  of  Georgia  had 
seen  Mimi  out  riding,  and  had  fallen  so  much  in  love  that  he 
had  sent  a  petition  to  the  synod  for  a  divorce,  and  that  I- had 
been  appointed  assistant  to  the  ambassador  to  Vienna, — and 
he  communicated  this  news  with  a  sober  face  ;  and  frightened 
Katenka  with  spiders,  which  she  was  afraid  of.  He  was  very 
gracious  to  our  friends  DuV)koff  and  NekhliudofF.  and  was 
constantly  telling  us  and  visitors  his  plans  for  the  coming 
year.  Although  these  plans  were  clianged  nearly  every  day, 
and  contradicted  each  other,  they  were  so  attractive  that  we 
listened  to  them  eagerly,  and  Liubotchka  stared  straight  at 
papa's  mouth,  never  winking  lest  she  should  lose  a  single 
word.  But  the  plan  consisted  in  leaving  ns  in  INIoscow  at 
the  university,  and  going  to  Italy  with  Liubotchka  for  two 
years,  and  purchasing  an  estate  in  the  Crimea,  on  the  south- 
ern shore,  and  going  there  every  summer,  and  in  removmg 
to  Peterburg  with .  the  whole  family,  and  so  forth.  But 
another  change  had  taken  place  in  papa,  besides  his  remark- 
able gayety,  which  greatly  surprised  me.  He  had  got  himself 
some  fashionable  clothes, — an  olive-colored  coat,  fashion- 
able trousers  with  straps,  and  a  long  overcoat  which  became 
him  extremel}',  —  and  he  was  often  deliciously  scented  with 
perfi^mes  when  he  went  anywhere,  and  particularly  to  one 
lady  of  whom  INIimi  never  spoke  except  with  a  sigh,  and 
with  a  face  on  which  one  might  have  read  the  words,  "•Poor 
orphans  !  An  unfortunate  passion.  It  is  well  that  she  is  no 
more,"  and  so  on.  I  learned  from  Nikolai  (for  papa  never 
told  us  about  his  ganibling  affairs),  that  he  had  been  very 
lucky  in  i)lay  that  winter ;  he  had  won   a  dreadfully  large 


YOUTH.  215 

sum  at  I'hombre,  and  did  not  want  to  play  any  that  spring. 
Probably  this  was  the  reason  that  he  w^as  so  anxious  to  go  to 
the  country  as  soon  as  possible,  lest  he  should  not  be  able 
to  restrain  himself.  He  even  decided  not  to  await  my  en- 
trance to  the  university,  but  went  off  immediately  after  Piaster 
to  Petrovskoe  with  the  girls,  whither  Volodya  and  I  were  to 
follow  him  later  on. 

Volodya  had  been  inseparable  from  Dubkoff  all  winter  and 
"^'en  until  the  spring  (but  he  and  Dmitri  began  to  treat  each 
other  rather  coldly) .  Their  chief  pleasures,  so  far  as  I  could 
judge  from  the  conversations  which  I  heard,  consisted  in 
drinking  champagne  incessantly,  driving  in  a  sleigh  past  the 
windows  of  young  ladies  with  whom  they  were  both  iu  love, 
and  dancing  vis-iX-vis,  not  at  children's  balls  any  more,  but 
at  real  balls. 

This  last  circumstance  caused  a  great  separation  between 
\''olodya  and  me,  although  we  loved  each  other.  AVe  were 
conscious  that  the  difference  was  too  great  between  the  boy 
to  whom  teachers  still  came,  and  the  man  who  danced  at 
great  balls,  to  allow  of  our  making  up  our  minds  to  share  our 
thoughts.  Katenka  was  already  quite  grown  up,  read  a  great 
many  romances,  and  the  thought  that  she  might  soon  marry 
no  longer  seemed  a  joke  to  me  ;  but  although  Volodya  was 
grown  up  also,  they  did  not  associate,  and  it  even  seemed  as 
though  they  despised  each  other.  Generally,  when  Katenka 
was  at  home,  she  had  nothing  to  occupy  her  but  romances, 
and  she  was  bored  most  of  the  time  ;  but  when  strange  men 
came,  she  became  very  lively  and  charming,  made  ез'ез  at 
them,  and  what  she  meant  to  express  by  this  I  could  not  in 
the  least  understand.  Only  later,  when  I  learned  from  her 
in  conversation  that  the  only  coquetry  permitted  to  a  girl  is 
this  coquetry  of  the  eyes,  could  I  explain  to  myself  the 
strange,  unnatural  grimaces  of  the  eyes,  л¥Ь1сЬ  did  not  seem 
to  surprise  other  people  at  all.  Liubotchka  also  had  begun 
to  wear  dresses  which  were  almost  long,  so  that  her  crooked 
feet  were  hardly  visible  at  all ;  but  she  cried  as  much  as  ever. 
She  no  longer  dreamed  now  of  marrying  a  hussar,  but  a 
singer,  or  a  musician  ;  and  to  this  end  she  busied  herself 
diligently  with  music.  St.  Jerome,  who  knew  that  he  Avas  to 
remain  in  the  house  only  until  the  conclusion  of  my  examina- 
tions, had  found  a  situation  with  some  Count,  and  from  that 
time  forth  looked  upon  our  household  rather  disdainfully. 
He  was  seldom  at  hovue,  took  to  s'uoking  cigarettes,  which 


216  YOUTH. 

were  then  the  height  of  dandyism,  and  was  incessantly  whis- 
tling merry  airs  through  a  card.  Mimi  became  more  bitter 
every  day,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she  did  not  expect  any 
good   from    au}'  one  of    us  from  the   time  we  were    grown 

When  I  came  down  to  dinner,  I  found  only  Mimi,  Katenka, 
Liubotchka,  and  St.  Jerome  in  the  dining-room  ;  papa  was 
not  at  home,  and  Volodya,  who  was  preparing  for  examina- 
tion, was  with  his  comrades  in  his  room,  and  had  ordered  his 
dinner  to  be  served  there.  Of  late,  Mimi,  whom  none  of  us 
resi)ected,  had  taken  the  head  of  the  table  most  of  the  time, 
and  dinner  lost  much  of  its  charm.  Dinner  was  no  longer, 
as  in  mamma's  day,  and  grandmamma's,  a  kind  of  ceremony 
which  united  the  whole  family  at  a  certain  hour,  and  divided 
the  day  into  two  halves.  We  permitted  ourselves  to  be  late, 
to  come  in  at  the  second  course,  to  drink  wine  from  tumblei's 
(St.  Jerome  himself  set  the  example  on  this  point),  to  lounge 
on  our  chairs,  to  go  off  before  dinner  was  over,  and  similar 
lil)erties.  From  that  moment  dinner  ceased  to  be,  as  for- 
merly, a  joyous,  daily  family  solemnity.  It  was  quite 
another  thing  at  Petrovskoe,  where  all,  freshly  washed  and 
dressed  for  dinner,  seated  themselves  in  the  drawing-room  at 
two  o'clock,  and  chatted  merrily  while  waiting  for  the  ap- 
pointed hour.  Just  as  the  clock  in  the  butler's  pantr}^  squeaks 
preparatory  to  striking  two,  Foka  enters  softly,  a  napkin  on 
his  arm,  and  with  a  dignitied  and  rather  stern  countenance. 
"Dinner  is  read}' !  "  he  says  in  a  loud,  drawling  voice ;  and 
all  go  to  the  dining-room,  the  elder  people  in  front,  the 
young  ones  behind,  with  gay,  contented  faces  ;  rattling  their 
starched  skirts,  and  squeaking  their  shoes,  and  softly  talking, 
they  seat  themselves  in  their  familiar  places.  And  it  used  to 
be  very  different  in  Moscow,  where  all  stood  softly  talking 
before  the  table,  waiting  for  grandmamma.  Gavrilo  has 
already  gone  to  announce  to  her  that  dinner  is  served :  all 
at  once  the  door  opens,  the  rustle  of  a  dress  and  the  sound 
of  feet  become  audible,  and  grandmamma  swims  out  of  her 
chamber,  in  a  remarkable  cap  with  lilac  ribbons  and  all  on 
one  side,  smiling  or  scowling  darkly  (according  to  the  state 
of  her  health).  Gavrilo  rushes  to  her  chair,  the  chairs  rattle, 
and  with  a  feeling  of  cold  trickling  down  your  spine  —  a  fore- 
runner of  appetite  —  you  take  your  rather  damp,  starched 
napkin,  devour  your  crust  of  bread,  and,  rubbing  your  hands 
under  the  table  with  impatient  and  joyous  greediness,  you 


YOUTH.  217 

gaze  at  the  steamino;  tureen  of  soup,  which  the  butler  dis- 
penses according  to  rank,  age.  and  grandmamma's  ideas. 

I  no  longer  experience  any  such  joj  nor  emotion  луПеп  I 
come  to  dinner. 

The  chatter  between  Mimi,  St.  Jerome,  and  the  girls  about 
the  frightful  shoes  which  the  Russian  teacher  wears,  and  Prin- 
cess Kornakova's  flounced  dresses,  and  so  on,  —  that  chatter 
which  formerly  inspired  me  with  genuine  contempt,  which  I 
did  not  even  tr}^  to  conceal  so  far  as  Liubotchka  and  Katenka 
were  concerned,  —  did  not  withdraw  me  from  my  new  and 
virtuous  frame  of  mind.  I  was  unusuall}'  gentle  ;  I  listened 
to  them  with  a  peculiarly  courteous  smile,  asked  to  have  the 
kvas  passed  to  me  respectfully,  and  agreed  with  St.  Jerome 
when  he  corrected  me  for  a  phrase  which  I  had  used  before 
dinner,  and  told  me  that  it  was  better  to  say  je  puis  than  je 
рейх.  But  I  must  confess  that  it  rather  displeased  me  to 
find  that  no  one  paid  any  special  attention  to  my  gentleness 
and  amiability.  After  dinner  Liuliotchka  showed  me  a  paper 
on  which  she  had  written  down  all  her  sins  ;  I  thought  that 
very  fine,  but  that  it  would  be  still  better  to  inscribe  one's 
sins  in  one's  soul,  and  that  "  all  that  amouuied  to  nothing." 

"  AVhy  not?  "  asked  Liubotchka. 

"  Well,  but  this  is  ver}'  good  ;  you  don't  understand  me." 
And  I  went  np-stairs  to  ni}'  own  room,  telling  St.  Jerome  that 
I  was  going  to  occupy  myself  until  time  to  go  to  confession, 
which  was  an  hour  and  a  half  off  yet,  with  writing  out  a  list 
of  my  duties  and  occupations  for  my  whole  life,  and  laying 
out  on  paper  the  aim  of  my  life,  and  the  rules  by  which  I 
was  always  to  act  witiiout  any  deviation. 


218  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   V. 

BULES. 

I  PROCURED  a  sheet  of  paper,  and  wanted  first  of  all  to  set 
about  a  list  of  my  duties  and  occupations  for  the  coming 
year.  For  this  the  paper  must  be  ruled ;  but  as  I  had  not 
the  ruler  by  me,  I  used  the  Latin  dictionary  for  that  purpose. 
When  I  drew  the  pea  along  the  dictionary,  and  then 
moved  that  back,  it  appeared  that  instead  of  a  line  I  had 
made  a  long  puddle  of  ink  on  the  paper;  besides,  the  dic- 
tionary was  shorter  than  the  paper,  and  the  line  curved 
around  its  soft  corner.  I  took  another  piece  of  paper,  and 
by  moving  the  lexicon  I  managed  to  draw  the  line  after  a 
fashion.  Separating  my  duties  into  three  classes,  —  duties  to 
myself,  to  my  neighbor,  and  to  God,  —  I  began  to  write  down 
the  first ;  but  they  turned  out  to  be  so  numerous,  and  of  so 
many  kinds  and  subdivisions,  that  it  was  necessary  to  write 
fiist,  ''  Rules  of  Life,"  and  then  to  set  about  making  a  list 
of  them.  I  took  six  sheets  of  paper,  sewed  them  into  a 
book,  and  wrote  at  the  top,  "  Rules  of  Life."  These  words 
were  so  crookedly  and  unevenl}^  written  that  I  pondered  for 
a  long  while  whether  I  should  not  wi'ite  them  over ;  and  I 
worried  long  as  I  looked  at  the  tattered  list,  and  this  deformed 
heading.  Why  does  every  thing  which  was  so  beautiful  and 
clean  in  my  soul  turn  out  so  repulsive  on  paper,  and  in  life 
generally,  when  I  want  to  put  in  practice  any  of  the  things 
which  I  think? 

''  The  priest  has  arrived  ;  please  come  down-stairs  to  attend 
to  him,"  Nikolai  came  to  announce. 

I  hid  my  blank-book  in  the  table,  looked  in  the  glass, 
brushed  my  hair  up,  which,  in  my  opinion,  gave  me  a  thought- 
ful look,  and  went  to  the  boudoir,  where  stood  a  covered 
talUe  with  the  images  and  the  wax  candles  for  sacramental 
preparation.  Papa  entered  b}'  another  door  at  the  same  time 
as  myself.     The   priest,  a  gray -haired  monk  with  a  steru, 


YOUTH.  219 

aged  face,  gave  papa  his  blessing.  Papa  Ivissecl  his  small, 
broad,  dry  hand  ;  1  did  the  same. 

''Call  Waldemar,"  said  papa:  "where  is  he?  But  no, 
he  will  make  his  preparation  at  the  universit}'." 

"He  is  engaged  with  the  Prince,"  said  Katenka,  and 
looked  at  Liubotchka.  Liubotchka  suddenly  blushed  for 
some  reason,  pretended  that  she  felt  ill,  and  quitted  the 
room.  I  followed  her.  She  paused  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  wrote  something  more  on  her  paper. 

"  What,  have  3'ou  committed  a  fresh  sin?  "  I  asked. 

"No,  it's  nothing,"  she  replied,  turning  red. 

At  that  moment  Dmitri's  voice  became  audible  in  the  ante- 
room, as  he  took  leave  of  Volodya. 

"  Every  thing  is  a  temptation  to  you,"  said  Katenka,  enter- 
ing the  room,  and  addressing  Liubotchka. 

I  could  not  understand  what  had  happened  to  my  sister : 
she  was  so  confused  that  tears  rose  to  her  eyes,  and  her  agi- 
tation, attaining  the  highest  point,  passed  into  anger  at  herself 
and  Katenka,  who  was  evidently  teasing  her. 

"  It's  plain  that  you  are  a  foreigner  [nothing  could  be 
more  insulting  to  Katenka  than  the  appellation  of  "for- 
eigner," and  therefore  Liubotchka  made  use  of  it]  :  before 
'such  a  sacrament,"  she  continued,  with  dignity  in  her  voice, 
"and  3'ou  are  distracting  me  intentionally;  you  ought  to 
understand  that  this  is  not  a  jest  at  all." 

"Do  you  know  what  she  has  written,  Nikoliuka?"  said 
Katenka,  offended  by  the  word  "foreigner."  "She  has 
written  ' '  — 

"  I  did  not  expect  that  you  would  be  so  malicious,"  said 
Liubotchka,  breaking  down  completely,  and  leaving  us. 
"  She  leads  me  into  sin,  and  on  purpose,  at  such  a  moment. 
I  shall  not  stand  by  you  in  your  feelings  and  sufferings." 


22C  YOUTTT. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

CONFESSION. 

With  these  and  other  similar  distracting  thoughts,  I  re- 
turned to  the  boudoir,  when  all  were  assembled  there,  and 
the  priest,  rising,  prepared  to  read  the  prayer  before  confes- 
sion. But  as  soon  as  the  stern,  expressi%'e  voice  of  the 
monk  resounded  amid  the  universal  silence,  and  especially 
when  he  addressed  us  with  the  words,  ''  Confess  all  your 
sins  vnthout  shame,  secrecy,  or  justification,  and  your  soiil  shall 
be  j>urified  before  God;  but  if  ye  conceal  aught,  so  shall  ye 
have  greater  sin,"  the  feeling  of  devout  agitation  which  I 
had  felt  on  the  preceding  morning,  at  the  thought  of  the 
coming  sacrament,  returned  to  me.  I  even  took  pleasure  in 
the  admission  of  this  state,  and  tried  to  retain  it,  putting  a 
stop  to  all  thoughts  which  occurred  to  me,  and  trying  to  fear 
something. 

The  first  who  approached  to  confess  was  papa.  He  re- 
mained for  a  very  long  time  in  grandmamma's  room,  and 
meanwhile  all  of  us  in  the  boudoir  remained  silent,  or  dis- 
cussed in  whispers  who  should  go  first.  At  length  the  monk's 
voice  was  again  audible  behind  the  door,  as  he  read  a  prayer, 
and  then  papa's  footsteps.  The  door  creaked,  and  he 
emerged,  coughing,  as  was  his  wont,  twitching  his  shoulders, 
and  not  looking  at  any  of  us. 

''Come,  do  you  go  now,  Liuba,  and  see  that  you  tell  every 
thing.  You  are  my  great  sinner,"  said  papa  gayly,  pinching 
her  cheek. 

Liubotchka  reddened  and  turned  pale,  pulled  her  list  from 
her  apron  and  hid  it  again,  and  hanging  her  head,  and  seem- 
ing to  shorten  her  neck,  as  though  expecting  a  blow  from 
aliove,  she  passed  through  the  door.  8he  did  not  stay  long, 
but  when  she  came  out  her  shoulders  were  heaving  with  sobs. 

Finally,  after  pretty  Katenka,  who  came  out  smiling,  my 
turn  came.     I  entered  the  half-li"hted  room  with  the  same 


YOUTH.  221 

dull  terror,  and  я  desire  to  deliberately  augment  that  terror, 
in  myself.  The  priest  stood  before  the  reading-desk,  and 
slowly  turned  his  face  towards  me. 

I  did  not  remain  more  than  five  minutes  in  grandmamma's 
room,  and  came  out  happy,  and,  according  to  my  соплас- 
tjons  at  the  time,  a  perfectly  pure,  morally  changed,  and  new 
man.  Although  all  the  old  surroundings  of  life  struck  me 
"unpleasantly,  the  same  rooms,  the  same  furniture,  the  same 
face  in  myself  (I  should  have  liked  to  change  my  exterior, 
just  as  all  my  interior  had  been  changed,  as  I  thought), — 
still,  notwithstanding  this,  I  remained  in  this  refreshing  frame 
of  mind  until  I  went  to  bed. 

I  had  already  fallen  into  a  doze,  as  I  was  going  over  in 
imagination  all  the  sins  of  which  I  had  been  purified,  when 
all  at  once  I  recalled  one  shameful  sin  which  I  had  kept  back 
in  confession.  The  words  of  the  prayer  preceding  confes- 
sion came  back  to  me,  and  resounded  in  my  ears  without 
intermission.  All  1113'  composure  vanished  in  a  moment. 
"  And  if  ye  conceal  aught,  so  shall  ye  have  greater  sin," 
I  heard  incessantly.  I  saw  that  I  was  such  a  terrible  sinner 
that  there  was  no  punishment  adequate  for  me.  Long  did  I 
toss  from  side  to  side,  as  I  reflected  on  ray  situation,  and 
awaited  God's  punishment  and  even  sudden  death  from  mo- 
ment to  moment,  —  a  thought  which  threw  me  into  indescrib- 
able terror.  But  suddenly  the  happy  thought  occurred  to  me, 
to  go  or  ride  to  the  priest  at  the  monastery  as  soon  as  it  was 
light,  and  confess  again  ;  and  I  became  calm. 


222  то  V  TIL 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    TRIP    TO    THE    MONASTERY. 

I  WOKE  up  several  times  during  the  niglit,  fearing  to  over- 
sleep myself  in  the  morning,  and  at  six  o'clock  I  was  already 
on  my  feet.  It  was  hardly  light  at  the  windows  yet.  I  put 
on  my  clothes  and  my  boots,  which  lay  in  a  heap  and  un- 
brushed  by  the  bed,  for  Nikolai  had  not  succeeded  in  carry- 
ing them  off ;  and  without  washing  myself  or  saying  my 
ргаз'егз,  I  went  out  into  tlie  street  alone  for  the  first  time  in 
my  life.  — 

From  beliind  the  big,  green-roofed  house  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street,  the  red  flush  of  the  dull,  cold  dawn  appeared. 
A  rather  hard  spring  morning  frost  bound  the  mud  and  the 
rivulets,  crackled  under  foot,  and  bit  my  face  and  hands. 

There  was  not  a  single  cabman  in  our  lane  as  yet,  though 
I  had  counted  on  it  in  order  that  I  might  go  and  return  the 
more  speedily.  Only  a  few  carts  were  dragging  slowly  along 
the  Arbata,  and  a  couple  of  working  stone-masons  passed 
along  the  sidewalk  in  conversation.  After  I  had  gone  a 
thousand  paces,  I  began  to  meet  men  and  women  going  to 
market  with  their  baskets,  and  casks  going  for  Avater.  A 
pie-seller  had  come  out  at  the  corner ;  one  kalatch-baker's 
shop  ^  was  open,  and  at  the  Arbatsky  gate  I  came  across 
an  old  cabman  asleep  on  his  луогп,  blue,  patched  drozhky. 
It  must  have  been  in  his  sleep  that  he  asked  me  twenty  kopeks 
to  the  monastery  and  back,  but  then  he  suddenl}^  recollected 
himself ;  and  onl}'  when  I  was  about  to  take  my  seat,  did  he 
lash  his  horse  with  the  ends  of  the  reins,  and  attempt  to 
drive  off.  ''I  must  feed  my  horse  !  impossible,  master !  " 
he  muttered. 

It  Avas  with  difficulty  that  T  persuaded  him  to  stop  b}"  offer- 
ing him  forty  kopeks.  He  pulled  up  his  horse,  looked  me 
over  carefully,  and  said,  "Get  in,  master."      I  confess  that 

'  Kalatch,  a  certain  kind  of  white  roll  or  small  loaf. 


YOUTH.  223 

I  waf3  rather  afraid  that  he  would  drive  me  to  some  sechided 
lane,  and  lob  me.  Catching  hold  of  his  tattered  coat-collar, 
whereupon  his  wrinkled  neck,  mounted  upon  a  deepl}'  bowed 
spine,  was  laid  bare  in  a  pitiful  way,  I  climlied  up  to  the 
blue,  undulating,  rocking  seat,  and  we  went  shaking  down 
the  Vosdvizhenka.  On  the  way.  I  observed  that  the  l)ack  of 
the  drozhky  was  lined  with  bits  of  the  greenish  material  from 
which  the  driver's  coat  was  made  ;  and  this  fact  calmed  me, 
for  some  reason,  and  I  was  no  longer  afraid  that  the  izvosh- 
chik  would  carry  me  off  to  an  obscure  alley  and  rob  me. 

The  sun  was  already  quite  high,  and  had  gilded  the  cupolas 
of  the  churches  brilliantly,  when  w^e  arrived  at  the  monastery. 
Frost  still  lingered  in  the  shade  ;  but  along  the  road  flowed 
swift  turlnd  streams,  and  the  horse  splashed  along  through 
liquid  mud.  On  entering  the  enclosure  of  the  monastery,  I 
inquired  of  the  first  person  I  saw,  Avhere  I  could  find  the 
priest. 

"  Yonder  is  his  cell,"  said  the  passing  monk,  pausing  for 
a  moment,  and  pointing  at  a  tiny  house  w'ith  a  tiny  portico. 

"  I  am  extremely  obliged,"  said  I. 

But  what  could  the  monks,  who  all  stared  at  me  as  they 
came  out  of  the  church  one  by  one,  think  of  me?  I  was 
neither  an  adult  nor  a  child ;  my  face  was  unwashed,  my 
liair  uncombed,  my  clothing  dusty,  my  shoes  uucleaned  and 
still  muddy.  To  Avhat  class  did  the  monks,  who  луеге  sur- 
veying me,  assign  me?  And  the}'  examined  me  attentively. 
NcA^ertlieless,  I  walked  in  the  direction  indicated  to  me  by 
the  young  monk. 

An  old  man  in  a  l)lack  gai*meut,  with  a  thick  gray  beard, 
met  me  in  the  narrow  path  which  led  to  the  cell,  and  asked 
what  I  wanted. 

For  a  moment,  I  wanted  to  say,  "  Nothing."  run  bock  to 
the  carriage,  and  drive  home  ;  but  the  old  man's  face  inspired 
confidence,  in  spite  of  his  contracted  brows.  I  said  that  1 
must  see  the  priest,  an<l  mentioned  his  name. 

"  Come,  3'oung  sir,  I  will  conduct  3'ou,"  said  he,  tuining 
back,  and  apparently  divining  my  situation  at  once.  ''The 
father  is  at  mass  :  he  will  soon  I)e  here." 

He  opened  the  door,  and  led  me  through  a  clean  vestibule 
and  ante-room,  over  a  clean  linen  floor-covering,  into  the 
cell. 

"  Wait  h'jre,"  said  he,  with  a  kindly,  sot^thing  glance,  and 
went  o;".t. 


224  YOUTH. 

The  little  room  in  which  I  found  myself  was  extremely 
small,  and  arranged  with  the  greatest  neatness.  A  little 
table  covered  with  oilcloth,  which  stood  between  two  double- 
leaved  windows,  upon  which  stood  two  pots  of  geraniums, 
a  stand  supporting  the  images,  ajid  a  lamp  which  swung 
before  them,  one  arm-chair  and  two  common  chairs,  com- 
prised the  entire  furniture.  In  the  corner  hung  a  wall- 
clock,  its  dial  adorned  wdth  painted  flowers,  and  with  its 
brass  weights  on  chains  half  unwound  :  two  cassocks  hung 
from  nails  in  the  partition,  behind  which  was  probabl}'  the 
bed,  and  which  was  joined  to  the  ceiling  by  white-washed 
wooden  poles. 

The  windows  opened  on  a  white  wall  about  two  arshins 
distant.  Between  them  and  the  wall,  was  a  little  bush  of 
s^'ringa.  Not  a  sound  from  without  penetrated  to  the  room, 
so  that  the  regular  tick  of  the  pendulum  seemed  a  loud  noise 
in  this  stillness.  As  soon  as  I  was  alone  in  this  quiet  nook, 
all  my  former  ideas  and  memories  suddenly  leaped  out  of  my 
head,  as  if  they  had  never  been  there,  and  1  became  wholly 
absorbed  m  an  inexpressibly  agreeable  revery.  That 
yellow  nankeen  cassock,  Avith  its  tattered  lining,  the  worn 
black  leather  bmdings  of  the  books  and  their  brass  clasps, 
the  dull  green  hue  of  the  plants,  the  carefully  watered  earth 
and  well-washed  leaл'es,  and  the  monotonous,  interrupted 
sound  of  the  pendulum  in  particular,  spoke  to  me  distinctly 
of  a  new  life  hitherto  unknown  to  me,  —  a  life  of  solitude,  of 
prayer,  of  calm,  quiet  happiness. 

"Months  pass  by,  years  pass  b}',"  I  thought.  "He  is 
always  alone,  always  calm  ;  he  always  feels  that  his  con- 
science is  pure  in  the  sight  of  God,  and  that  his  prayers  are 
heard  by  Him."  For  half  an  hour,  I  sat  on  that  chair,  trying 
not  to  move,  and  not  to  breathe  loudl}',  in  order  that  I  might 
not  disturb  that  harmony  of  sounds  which  had  been  so  elo- 
quent to  me.  And  the  pendulum  ticked  on  as  before,  loudly 
to  the  right,  more  softly  to  the  left. 


YOUTH.  225 


(  CHAPTER  VIII. 

A    SECOND   CONFESSION. 

The  priest's  footsteps  aroused  me  from  this  revery. 

"■AVelcorae,"  said  he,  adjusting  his  gray  hair  with  his 
hand.     "  What  would  you  like  ?  " 

I  asked  him  to  bless  me,  and  kissed  his  small  yellow  hand 
with  peculiar  satisfaction. 

When  I  explained  my  petition  to  him,  he  made  no  reply 
to  me,  but  went  to  the  ikon,^  and  began  the  confession. 

When  the  confession  was  finished,  I  conquered  my  shame, 
told  him  all  that  was  in  my  soul ;  he  laid  his  hands  upon  my 
head,  and  in  his  quiet,  melodious  voice,  he  said,  '■"My  son, 
may  the  blessing  of  our  heavenly  Father  be  upon  3'ou,  and 
may  he  preserve  faith,  peace,  and  gentleness  within  you 
evermore.     Amen." 

I  was  perfectly  happy  ;  tears  of  bliss  rose  in  ray  throat ;  I 
kissed  the  folds  of  his  lady's-cloth  cassock,  and  raised  my 
head.     The  monk's  face  was  quite  calm. 

I  felt  that  I  was  taking  delight  in  the  sensation  of  emotion  ; 
and,  fearing  tiuit  I  might  banish  it  in  some  way,  I  took  leave 
of  the  priest  in  haste,  and  without  glancing  aside,  in  order 
not  to  distract  my  attention,  quitted  the  enclosure,  and  seated 
myself  again  in  the  motley  and  jolting  drozhkv.  But  the 
jolts  of  the  equipage,  the  variety  of  objects  which  flashed 
before  my  eyes,  speedily  dissipated  that  sensation,  and  I 
already  began  to  think  that  the  priest  was  probably  thinking 
by  this  time,  that  such  a  fine  soul  of  a  young  man  as  I,  he 
had  never  met,  and  never  would  meet  in  all  his  life,  and  that 
there  were  no  others  like  me.  I  was  convinced  of  that,  and 
this  conviction  called  forth  in  me  a  feeling  of  cheerfulness  of 
such  a  nature  that  it  demanded  conuuunication  to  some  one. 

I  wanted  dreadfully  to  talk  to  some  one  ;  l)ut  as  there  was 
no  one  at  hand  excc'[)t  the  izvosheliik,  I  turned  to  Inm. 

1  I'icUuee  of  Ibe  Baiiite. 


226  YOUTH. 

"  Well,  was  I  gone  long?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  so  very  long  ;  but  it  was  time  to  feed  the  horse  long 
ago,  because  I  am  a  night-c:il)man,"  replied  the  old  izvosh- 
chik,  who  seemed  quite  lively,  now  that  the  sun  лvas  up, 
compared  with  v>'hat  he  had  been  before. 

"It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was  only  a  minute,"  said  I. 
"  And  do  you  know  why  1  went  to  the  monaster}'  ?  "  I  added, 
changing  m}'  seat  to  the  hollow  which  was  nearer  the  driver. 

"What  business  is  that  of  mine?  I  take  my  passengers 
wherever  they  order  me,"  he  replied. 

"  No,  but  nevertheless  what  do  you  think?  "  I  went  on 
with  m}-  interrogations. 

"  Well,  probably,  some  one  is  to  be  buried,  and  you  went 
to  bu}'  a  place,"  said  he. 

"  No,  brother  ;  but  do  you  know  why  I  went?  " 

"  I  can't  know,  master,"  he  repeated. 

The  izvoshchik's  л'о1се  seemed  to  me  so  kind,  that  I  deter- 
mined to  relate  to  him  the  cause  of  my  journey,  and  ел^еп 
the  feeling  which  I  had  experienced,  for  his  edification. 

"  I  will  tell  3'ou,  if  you  like.     You  see  "  — 

And  I  told  him  ever^'  thing,  and  described  all  my  beautiful 
sentiments.     I  blush  even  now  at  the  memory  of  it. 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  izvoshchik  incredulously. 

And  for  a  long  time  after  that,  he  sat  silent  and  motion- 
less, only  now  and  then  adjusting  the  tail  of  his  coat,  that 
escaped  from  beneath  his  motley  feet  which  jogged  up  and 
down  in  their  big  boots  on  the  footljoard.  I  was  already 
thinking  that  he  was  thinking  al>out  me  in  the  same  wa}'  as 
the  priest,  —  that  is,  as  such  a  ver}'  fine  young  man,  Avhose 
like  did  not  exist  in  the  world  ;  l)ut  he  suddenly  turned  to  me. 

"  Well,  master,  is  your  business  connected  Avith  the 
quality  ?  ' ' 

"What?"  I  inquired. 

"  Your  business,  is  3'our  business  with  the  quality?  " 

"No,  he  has  not  understood  me,"  I  thought,  but  I  said 
nothing  more  to  him  until  we  reached  home. 

Although  the  feeling  of  agitation  and  devotion  did  not  last 
the  whole  way,  self-satisfaction  in  having  experien.ced  it  did, 
in  spite  of  the  people  who  dotted  the  streets  everywhere  with 
color  Ш  tlie  brilliant  sunlight ;  but  as  soon  as  I  reached  home, 
this  feeling  entirely  disappeared.  I  did  not  have  my  two 
twenty-kopek  jneces  to  pay  the  driver.  Gavrilo  the  butler,  to 
whom  1  was  already  indebted,  would  not  lend  me  any  more. 


^^^^^-  /l^  ^ 


227 


The  izvoshchik,  after  seeing  me  run  through  the  court-yard 
twice  to  get  the  money,  must  have  guessed  why  I  was  run- 
ning, climbed  down  from  his  drozhky,  and,  although  he  had 
seemed  to  me  so  kind,  began  to  talk  loudly,  with  an  evident 
desire  to  wound  me,  about  swindlers  who  would  not  pay  for 
their  rides. 

Every  one  was  still  asleep  in  the  house,  so  there  was  no 
one  of  whom  I  could  borrow  the  forty  kopeks  except  the 
servants.  Finall}'  Vasili,  under  my  sacred,  most  sacred  word 
of  honor,  which  (I  could  see  it  by  his  face)  he  did  not  put 
the  slightest  faith  in,  but  because  he  loved  me  and  remem- 
bered the  service  which  I  had  rendered  him,  paid  the  izvosh- 
chik for  me.  When  I  went  to  dress  for  church,  in  order  that 
I  might  receive  the  communion  with  the  rest,  and  it  turned 
out  that  my  clothes  had  not  been  mended  and  1  could  not  put 
them  on,  I  sinned  to  an  incalculable  extent.  Having  donned 
another  suit,  I  went  to  the  communion  in  a  strange  state  of 
agitation  of  mind,  and  with  utter  disbelief  in  my  very  fine 
proclivities. 


228  YOUTU. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

HOW    I    PREPARE    FOR   EXAMINATION. 

On  the  Friday  after  Easter,  papa,  my  sister,  Mimi,  and 
Kateuka  went  to  the  eountr}' ;  so  that  in  all  grandmamma's 
great  house  there  remained  only  Volod3'a,  myself,  and  Nt. 
Jerome.  The  frame  of  mind  in  which  I  had  found  nij-self 
on  the  day  of  confession,  and  when  I  went  to  the  monastery, 
had  completely  disappeared,  and  had  left  l)ehind  only  a 
troubled  though  agreeable  memory,  which  was  more  and 
more  dulled  by  the  new  impressions  of  a  free  life. 

The  blank-book  with  the  heading,  "  Rules  of  Life,"  had 
also  been  hidden  under  roughly  written  note-books  of  my 
studies.  Although  the  idea  of  the  possibility  of  establishing 
rules  for  all  the  contingencies  of  life,  and  of  guiding  myself 
alwa3s  by  them,  pleased  me,  and  seemed  ver}'  simple  and  at 
the  same  time  very  grand,  and  I  intended  all  the  same  to 
apply  it  to  life,  I  seemed  to  have  again  forgotten  that  it 
was  necessary  to  do  this  at  once,  and  I  kept  putting  it  off  to 
some  indefinite  time.  But  one  fact  delighted  me  ;  and  that 
was,  that  every  thouglit  which  occurred  to  me  now  ranged 
itself  immediately  under  one  or  other  of  the  classifications  of 
my  rules  and  duties,  —  either  under  the  head  of  duty  to  my 
neighbor,  to  myself,  or  to  God.  "  Now  I  will  set  it  down 
there,"  I  said  to  myself,  "and  many,  many  other  thoughts 
which  will  occur  to  me  then  on  this  subject."  I  often  ask 
myself  now :  When  was  1  better  and  more  correct,  —  then, 
when  I  believed  in  the  omnipotency  of  the  human  intellect, 
or  now  that  I  have  lost  faith  in  the  power  of  development, 
and  doubt  the  power  and  significance  of  the  human  mind? 
And  I  cannot  give  myself  any  positive  answer. 

The  consciousness  of  freedom,  and  that  spring  feeling  of 
expecting  something,  which  I  have  already  mentioned,  agi- 
tated me  to  such  a  degree  that  I  positively  could  not  control 
myself,  and  I  was  very  badly  prepared  for  my  examination. 


Suppose  уогт  are  busy  in  the  schoolroom  in  the  mornuig,  and 
know  that  it  is  necessary  to  work.  Itecause  to-morrow  there  is 
to  be  an  examination  on  a  subject,  two  whole  questions  on 
■which  you  Ьал'е  not  read  up  at  all,  when,  all  of  a  sudden,  a 
spring  perfume  wafts  in  at  the  window  :  it  seems  as  though 
it  were  indispensably  necessary  to  recall  something :  your 
hands  drop  of  themselves,  your  feet  begin  to  move  of 
their  own  will,  and  to  pace  back  and  forth,  and  some  spring 
seems  to  be  pressed  in  your  head  which  sets  the  whole  ma- 
chine in  motion  ;  and  it  is  so  light  and  natural  in  your  mind, 
and  divers  merry,  motley  reveries  begin  to  run  through  it, 
and  you  can  only  succeed  in  catching  their  gleam.  Thus  an 
hour,  two  honi's,  pass  unnoticed.  Or,  you  are  sitting  over 
your  book,  and  Concentrating  your  attention,  after  a  fashion, 
on  what  you  are  reading  ;  and  suddenly  you  hear  the  sound  of 
a  woman's  footsteps  and  dress  in  the  corridor,  and  every 
thing  has  sprung  out  of  your  head,  and  there  is  no  possibility 
of  sitting  still  in  one  place,  although  you  know  л^егу  well  that 
nobody  can  be  passing  through  that  corridor  except  Gascha, 
grandmother's  old  maid-servant.  "  AVell,  but  if  it  should  be 
she  all  at  once?"  comes  into  your  mind;  "  and  what  if  it 
should  be  beginning  now,  and  I  let  the  opportunity  slip?" 
And  you  spring  out  into  the  corridor,  and  see  that  it  is  actu- 
ally Gascha;  but  you  do  not  recover  control  of  your  head 
for  a  long  time.  Tlie  spring  has  been  pressed,  and  again  a 
frightful  disorder  has  ensued.  Or,  you  are  sitting  alone  in 
the  evening,  with  a  tallow  candle,  in  your  room  ;  and  all  at 
once  you  tear  yourself  from  your  book  for  a  moment  in  order 
to  snuff  the  candle  or  to  place  a  chair,  and  з'ои  see  that  it  is 
dark  everywhere,  at  the  doors  and  in  the  corners,  and  you 
hear  how  quiet  it  is  all  over  the  house ;  and  again  it  is 
impossible  not  to  stop  and  listen  to  that  silence,  and  not  to 
stare  at  that  obscurit}'  of  the  door  which  is  open  into  a  dark 
chamber,  and  not  to  remain  for  a  long,  long  time  immovable  in 
the  same  attitude,  or  not  to  go  down-stairs,  or  pass  through 
all  the  empty  rooms.  Often,  too,  I  have  sat  unperceived  for 
a  long  time  in  the  hall,  listening  to  the  sound  of  the  ''  Nightin- 
gale," which  Gascha  was  playing  with  one  finger  on  the  piano, 
as  she  sat  alone  with  one  tallow  candle  in  tbe  great  apart- 
ment. And  when  there  was  moonlight  I  could  not  resist 
rising  from  my  bed,  and  lying  on  the  window  toAvards  the 
ynrd.  and  gazing  at  the  illuminated  roof  of  the  Schapo- 
schnikof   house,  and  the  graceful  bell- tower  of  our  parish 


230  TOUTR. 

church,  and  at  the  nip;ht  shadows  of  the  hedge  and  bushes 
as  they  lay  upon  the  garden  paths  ;  and  I  could  not  help  sit- 
ting there  so  long,  that  1  was  only  able  to  rouse  myself  with 
difficulty  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning. 

So  that,  had  it  not  been  for  the  masters  who  continued  to 
come  to  me,  8t.  Jerome,  who  now  and  then  unwillingl}-  tic- 
kled my  A'anity,  and  most  of  all  the  desire  to  show  myself  a 
capable  young  fellow  in  the  eyes  of  my  friend  Nekhliudoft",  > 
that  is,  b}'  passing  an  excellent  examination,  Avhicli  in  his 
opinion  was  a  matter  of  great  importance,  —  if  it  had  not 
been  for  this,  the  spring  and  libert3'  would  have  had  the 
effect  of  making  me  forget  every  thing  I  had  known  V)efore, 
and  I  should  not  have  been  able  to  pass  the  examination  on 
any  terms. 


YOUTH.  231 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE    EXAMINATION   IN    HISTORY. 

On  the  10th  of  April  I  Avent  to  the  great  hall  of  the  uni- 
versity for  the  first  time,  under  the  protection  of  St.  Jerome. 
We  drove  there  in  our  ratlier  dandified  phaeton.  I  was  in  a 
dress-coat  for  the  first  time  in  my  life  ;  and  all  my  clothing, 
even  my  linen  and  stockings,  was  perfectly  new,  and  of  the 
very  best.  When  the  Swiss  pulled  off  my  overcoat,  and  I 
stood  before  him  in  all  the  beauty  of  my  costume,  1  was 
rather  ashamed  of  being  so  dazzling ;  but  I  had  no  sooner 
stepped  into  the  bright  hall,  with  its  polished  floor,  which 
was  filled  with  people,  and  beheld  hundreds  of  young  men 
m  gymnasium  uniforms  and  dress-coats,  several  of  whom 
glanced  at  me  with  indifference,  and  the  dignified  professors 
at  the  farther  end,  walking  freely  about  among  the 
and  sitting  in  large  arm-chairs,  than  I  was  instantb 
chanted  in  my  hope  of  turning  the  general  attention  upon 
myself,  and  the  expression  of  my  countenance,  which  at  home 
and  even  in  the  anteroom  had  indicated  that  I  possessed 
that  noble  and  distinguished  appearance  against  my  will, 
changed  into  an  expression  of  the  most  excessive  timidity,  and 
to  some  extent  of  depression.  I  even  fell  into  the  other  ex- 
treme, and  rejoiced  greatly  when  I  beheld  at  the  nearest  desk 
an  excessively  ugly,  dirtily  dressed  gentleman,  not  yet  old 
but  almost  entirely  gray,  who  sat  on  the  last  bench,  at  a  dis- 
tance from  all  the  rest.  I  immediately  seated  myself  beside 
him,  and  began  to  observe  the  candidates  for  examination, 
and  to  draw  m}'  conclusions  about  them.  jMany  and  varied 
were  the  figures  and  faces  there  ;  but  all,  accordmg  to  my 
opinion  at  the  time,  were  easily  divisible  into  three  classes. 

There  were  those  who,  like  myself,  presented  themselves 
for  examination,  accompanied  Ьл'  their  tutors  or  parents  ;  and 
among  their  number  Avas  the  youngest  Ivin  with  the  well- 
known  Frobt,  and  lliuka  Grap  with  his  aged  father.      All 


rotessors 
e  tables,  \ 
:h'  disen-  I 


232  YOiTTlL 

such  had  downy  chins,  prominent  linen,  and  sat  qnirtly  with- 
out openiuii-  the  books  and  blank-hooks  wliich  they  had 
brought  with  them,  and  regarded  tiie  professors  and  the  ex- 
amination tables  with  evident  timidity.  ']"he  s  'cond  elass  of 
candidates  were  the  young  men  in  the  gymnasium  uniforms, 
many  of  whom  had  already  shaved.  Most  of  these  knew  each 
other,  talked  loudly,  mentioned  the  professors  by  their  names 
and  patronymics,  were  already  preparing  questions,  passing 
their  uote-books  to  each  other,  walking  over  the  stools  in  the 
anteroom,  and  bringing  in  patties  and  slices  of  bread-and- 
butter,  Avhich  they  immediately  devoured,  merel}'  b^'uduig 
their  heads  to  a  level  with  the  desks.  And  lastly,  there  was 
a  third  class  of  candidates,  very  few  in  number,  however, 
who  were  quite  old,  were  attired  in  dress-coats,  though 
the  majority  wore  surtouts,  and  were  without  any  visible 
linen.  The  one  who  consoled  me  by  being  certainly  dressed 
worse  than  I  was  belonged  to  this  last  class,  lie  leaned  his 
head  on  both  hands,  and  between  his  fingers  escaped  dishev- 
elled locks  of  half-gray  hair ;  he  was  reading  a  book,  and 
merely  glanced  at  me  for  a  moment  with  his  brilliant  eyes 
in  any  thing  but  a  good-natured  way,  scowled  darkly,  and 
thrust  out  a  shining  elbow  in  my  direction,  so  that  I  might  not 
move  any  nearer  to  him.  The  gymnasium  men,  on  the  other 
hand,  лусге  too  familiar,  and  I  was  a  little  afraid  of  them. 
One  said,  as  he  thrust  a  book  into  my  hand,  "Give  this  to 
that  man  yonder;"  another  said,  as  he  passed  me,  '"Go 
ahead,  batinschka  ;  "  a  third,  as  he  climbed  over  the  desk, 
leaned  on  my  shoulder  as  though  it  had  been  the  bench.  All 
this  was  coarse  and  disagreeable  to  me.  I  considered  m3'self 
much  better  than  these  fellows  from  the  gymnasium,  and 
thought  the}'  had  no  business  to  permit  themselves  such  lib- 
erties with  me.  At  last  they  began  to  call  the  family  names  ; 
the  gymnasium  fellows  stepped  out  boldly,  answered  well  for 
the  most  part,  and  returned  cheerfully.  Our  set  were  much 
more  timid,  and  answered  worse,  it  appeared.  Some  of  the 
elder  men  answered  excellently,  others  very  badly  indeed. 
When  Semenoff  was  called,  my  neighbor  with  the  hair  and 
glittering  eyes  stepped  over  my  feet  with  a  rude  push,  and 
went  up  to  the  table.  On  returning  to  his  place,  he  took  up 
his  note-books,  and  quietly  went  away  witliout  finding  out 
how  he  had  been  rated.  I  had  alreu.ly  shuddei^d  several 
times  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  which  called  the  family  names, 
but  my  turn  nad  not  yet  come,  according  to  the  alphabetical 


YOUTH.  233 

list,  although  some  whose  names  began  with  К  had  ah'eady 
been  called  up.  *■'  Ikouin  and  Teneff,''  shouted  some  one  in 
the  professors'  corner  all  of  a  sudden.  A  shiver  ran  through 
my  back  and  my  liair. 

"  Who  is  called?  Who  is  Barteneff  ?  "  they  began  to  say 
around  me. 

"  Go,  Ikonin,  you  are  called  :  but  who  is  Barteneff,  Mor- 
deneff  ?  I  do  not  know,  confess,"  said  a  tall,  ruddy  gym- 
nasist  as  he  stood  before  me. 

"  It  is  you,"  said  8t.  Jerome. 

"  М3'  name  is  Irteneff,"  said  I  to  the  red-faced  gj'mnasist. 
^^  Did  they  call  for  Irteneff?  " 

"  Yes  ;  wh}'  don't  you  go?  What  a  fop  !  "  he  added,  not 
loudly,  but  so  that  I  heard  his  words  as  I  left  the  bench. 
In  front  of  me  walked  Ikonin,  a  tall  young  man  of  five  and 
twenty,  who  belonged  to  the  third  class  of  old  candidates. 
He  wore  a  tight  olive  coat,  a  blue  satin  neckerchief,  upon 
Avhieh  liehind  liung  liis  long,  light  liair,  dressed  a  la  uuizhik.^ 
I  had  already  remarked  his  personal  appearance  on  the  seats. 
He  was  rather  good-looking  and  excitable. 

What  especially  struck  me  in  him  was  the  queer  reddisli 
hair  which  he  had  allowed  to  grow  on  his  throat ;  and,  still 
more,  a  strange  custcMn  which  he  had  of  incessantly  unbut- 
toning his  waistcoat,  and  scratching  his  breast  under  his 
shirt. 

Three  professors  were  seated  at  the  table  which  Ikonin  and 
I  were  approaching  :  not  one  of  them  returned  our  salute. 
The  young  professor  was  shuffling  tickets  like  a  paclc  of 
cards  :  tlie  second  professor,  with  a  star  on  his  coat,  was 
staring  at  the  gymnasist  who  was  saying  something  very 
rapidly  about  Charlemagne,  adding  "at  length"  to  eveiy 
word  ;  and  the  third,  an  old  man,  looked  at  us  through  his 
spectacles,  and  pointed  to  tlie  tickets.  I  felt  that  his  gaze 
was  directed  upon  Ikouin  and  me  jointly,  and  that  something 
in  our  appearance  disi)leased  him  (possibly  Ikonin's  red 
beard)  because  as  he  looked  at  us  again  in  the  same  way  lie 
made  an  impatient  sign  with  his  head  to  us  that  we  should 
take  our  tickets  as  quickly  as  possible.  I  felt  vexed  and 
insulted,  in  the  first  place,  because  no  one  had  retiu'ned  our 
greeting,  and,  in  the  second,  because  they  were  evidently  iu- 
chuling  me  and  Ikonin  in  one  classification,  tliat  of  candidates 
for  examination,    and   were  ah'eady   i)rejudiced   against  me 

1  ruasaiit :  cut  square  all  rouud. 


234  YOUTH. 

because  of  Ikonin's  red  Avhiskers.  I  took  my  ticket  without 
timidity,  and  prepared  to  answer,  but  the  professor  directed 
his  gaze  at  Ikoniu.  I  read  my  ticket  through  ;  1  knew  it, 
and,  while  cahnly  awaiting  my  turn,  I  observed  what  was 
going  on  before  me.  Ikoniu  was  not  in  the  least  embarrassed, 
and  was  even  too  bold,  for  he  moved  sideways  to  take  his 
ticket,  shook  back  his  hair,  and  read  what  was  printed  on  it  in 
a  dashing  way.  He  was  on  the  point  of  opening  his  mouth  to 
repl}',  I  thought,  when  the  professor  with  the  star,  having 
dismissed  the  gymnasist  with  praise,  glanced  at  him.  Ikoniu 
seemed  to  recollect  himself,  and  paused.  The  general  silence 
lasted  for  a  couple  of  miuutes. 

"  Well,"  said  the  professor  in  spectacles. 

Ikoniu  opened  his  mouth,  and  again  remained  silent. 

"Come,  you  are  not  the  only  one;  will  you  answer  or 
not?"  said  the  3'Ouug  professor,  but  Ikonin  did  not  even 
look  at  him.  He  stared  intently  at  the  ticket,  and  did  not 
utter  a  single  Avord.  The  professor  in  spectacles  looked  at 
him  through  his  glasses,  and  over  his  glasses,  and  without  his 
glasses,  because  by  tins  time  he  had  managed  to .  remove 
them,  wipe  them  carefully,  and  put  them  on  again.  Ikonin 
never  uttered  a  word.  Suddenly  a  smile  dawned  upon  his 
face,  he  shook  back  liis  hair,  again  turned  full  liroadside  to 
the  table,  looked  at  all  the  professors  in  turn,  then  at  me, 
turned,  aud  flourishing  his  hands  walked  jauutil}^  back  to  his 
bench.     The  professors  exchanged  glances. 

"  A  fine  bird!  "^  said  the  young  professor:  "he  studies 
at  his  own  expense." 

I  stepped  ueai'er  to  the  table,  but  the  professors  continued 
to  talk  almost  in  a  whisper  among  themselves,  as  though 
none  of  them  even  suspected  my  existence.  Then  I  was 
firmly  convinced  that  all  three  professors  were  very  much 
occupied  with  the  question  as  to  whether  I  would  stand  the 
examination,  and  whether  I  would  come  out  of  it  well ;  but 
that  thev  луеге  only  pretending,  for  the  sake  of  their  dignity, 
that  it  was  a  matter  of  utter  iudifference  to  them,  and  that 
they  did  not  perceive  me. 

When  the  professor  in  spectacles  turned  indifferently  to 
me,  inviting  me  to  answer  the  questions,  I  looked  him  full  in 
the  eye,  aud  was  rather  ashamed  for  him  that  he  should  so 
dissemble  before  me,  and  I  hesitated  somewhat  in  beginning 
my  answer ;  but  afterwards  it  becauie  easier  and  easier,  and 

*  Golabtthik,  little  dove. 


YOUTH.  235 

as  the  question  was  from  Russian  liistory  whicli  I  knew  л'егу 
well,  I  linished  in  brilliant  style,  and  even  gained  contideuce 
to  such  an  extent  that,  desiring  to  make  the  professors 
feel  that  I  was  not  Ikonin,  and  that  it  was  impossible  to 
confound  me  with  him,  I  proposed  to  take  his  ticket  also  ; 
but  the  professor  shook  his  head,  and  said,  ''  Very  good,  sir," 
and  noted  down  something  in  his  journal.  When  1  returned 
to  the  benches,  I  immediately  learned  from  the  gymnasists, 
who  know  every  thing,  God  knows  how,  that  1  had  received 
five. 


236  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

THE    EXAMINATION    IX    MATHEMATICS. 

In  the  succeeding  examinations  I  bad  many  new  acquaint- 
ances besides  Grap,  —  whom  I  deemed  unworthy  of  my 
acquaintance,  and  Ivin,  wlio  was  afraid  of  me  for  some 
reason.  Several  ah'eady  exchanged  greetings  with  me. 
Ikonin  was  even  rejoiced  when  he  saw  me,  and  confided  to 
me  that  he  should  be  re-examined  in  history,  that  the  history 
professor  had  had  a  spite  against  him  since  the  last  examina- 
tion, at  which,  also,  he  had  thrown  him  into  confusion. 
Semenoff,  who  was  going  to  enter  the  same  course  as  I,  math- 
ematics, was  shy  of  ever}^  one  until  the  very  end  of  the  ex- 
aminations, sat  silent  and  alone,  leaning  on  his  elbows,  лvith 
his  hands  thrust  into  his  gra}^  hair,  and  passed  his  examina- 
tions in  excellent  style.  He  was  second  ;  a  student  from  the 
first  gymnasium  was  first.  The  latter  was  a  tall,  thin, 
extremely  pale,  dark-complexioned  man,  with  a  neck  wrapped 
in  a  black  neck-cloth,  and  a  forehead  covered  with  pimples. 
His  hands  were  thin  and  red,  with  remarkably  long  fingers, 
and  nails  so  bitten  that  the  ends  of  his  fingers  seemed  to  be 
wound  with  thread.  All  this  seemed  very  beautiful  to  me, 
and  just  as  it  should  be  in  the  case  of  the  first  gymnasist. 
He  spoke  to  everybody  exactly  like  anybody  else,  and  I  even 
made  his  acquaintance  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was 
something  unusually  magnetic  in  his  walk,  the  movements  of 
his  lips,  and  in  his  black  eyes. 

In  the  mathematical  examination,  I  was  called  up  earlier 
than  usual,  I  knew  the  subject  pretty  well ;  but  there  were 
two  questions  in  algebra  wliich  I  had  contriл'ed  in  some  wa}' 
to  hide  from  my  teacher,  and  which  I  knew  absolutely  nothing 
about.  They  were,  as  I  now  recall  them,  the  theory  of 
combinations,  and  Newton's  binomial  theorem.  I  seated 
myself  at  the  desk  in  the  rear,  amriooked  over  the  two  un- 
familiar questions  ;  but  the  fact  that  1  was  not  accustomed  to 


YOUTH.  237 

work  in  a  noisy  room,  and  the  lack  of  time,  which  I  foresaw, 
prevented  iny  understanding  what  I  read. 

"Here  he  is;  come  here,  Nekhliudoff,"  said  Volodya's 
familiar  voice  behind  me. 

1  turned,  and  saw  my  brother  and  Dmitri,  who  were  making 
their  way  towards  me  between  the  benches,  лvith  coats  un- 
buttoned and  hands  flourishing.  It  was  immediately  apparent 
that  they  were  students  in  their  second  year,  who  were  as 
much  at  home  in  the  university  as  in  their  own  houses.  The 
sight  of  their  unbuttoned  coats  alone  expressed  disdain  for 
us  who  were  entering,  and  inspired  us  with  envy  and  respect. 
It  flattered  me  very  much  to  think  that  all  about  me  could 
see  that  1  was  acquainted  with  two  students  in  their  second 
year,  and  I  rose  hastily  to  meet  them. 

Volodya  could  not  even  refrain  from  expressing  his  supe- 
riority. 

"O  you  poor  wretch  !  "  said  he;  "how  goes  it?  Have 
you  been  examined  yet?  " 

"No." 

"  What  are  you  reading?     Aren't  з^ои  prepared?  " 

"Yes;  but  not  quite  on  two  questions.  1  don't  under- 
stand them." 

"What!  this  one  here?"  said  Volod3'a,  and  began  to 
explain  to  me  Newton's  l)inomial  theorem,  but  so  rapidly 
and  in  such  a  confused  manner,  that,  reading  disbelief  in  his 
knowledge  in  my  eyes,  he  glanced  at  Dmitri,  and  probably 
reading  the  same  in  his,  he  turned  red,  but  went  on,  never- 
theless, to  sa}^  something  which  I  did  not  understand. 

"  No,  Volodya,  stop  ;  let  me  go  through  it  with  him  :  per- 
haps we  shall  succeed,"  said  Dmitri,  glancing  at  the  profess- 
ors' corner  ;  and  he  seated  himself  beside  me. 

I  immediately  perceived  tliat  my  friend  was  in  that  gentle, 
complacent  mood  which  always  came  upon  him  лvhen  he  v.'as 
satisfled  with  himself,  and  which  I  specially  liked  in  him. 
As  he  understood  mathematics  well,  and  spoke  clearly,  he 
went  over  the  subject  so  splendidl}'  with  me,  that  I  remem- 
ber it  to  this  day.  But  scared}'  had  he  finished,  when  St. 
Jerome  s:ud  in  a  loud  wliisper,  "  It's  your  turn,  Nicolas,'' 
and  I  followed  Ilvouin  from  l)ehind  the  desk,  without  liaving 
succeeded  in  looking  over  the  other  unfamiliar  question.  1 
approached  the  tat)le  where  the  two  professors  sat,  and  a  gvm- 
misist  was  stniidiiig  before  the  blackboard.  The  gynniasist 
had    boldly    announced    ьоше    formula,   breaking    his    chalk 


238  YOUTH. 

with  a  tap  on  the  board,  and  still  went  on  writino;,  although 
tiie  professor  had  already  said,  "Enough!  "  and  ordeied  us 
to  take  our  tickets.  '•  Now,  what  if  1  get  that  theory  of  the 
combination  of  numbers?"  thought  I,  picking  out  my  ticket 
with  trembling  fingers  from  tlie  soft  pile  of  cut  paper.  Ikonin 
took  the  topmost  ticket,  without  making  any  choice,  with  the 
same  bold  gesture  and  sideways  lunge  of  his  whole  body  as 
in  the  preceding  examination. 

"•  1  always  have  such  devilish  luck !  "  he  muttered. 

I  looked  at  mine. 

Oh,  horror !     It  was  tlie  theory  of  combinations. 

"  What  have  you  got?  "  asked  Ikouin. 

I  showed  him. 

"  I  know  that,"  said  he. 

' '  Will  з'ои  change  ?  ' ' 

"  No,  it's  no  matter;  I  feel  that  I'm  not  in  condition,'* 
Ikonin  barely  contrived  to  whisper,  when  the  professor  sum- 
moned us  to  the  board. 

"  W441,  all's  lost !  "  I  thought.  "  Instead  of  the  brilliant 
examination  which  I  dreamed  of  passing,  I  shall  cover  myself 
with  eternal  disgrace,  even  worse  than  Ikonin."  But  all  at 
once  Ikonin  turned  to  me,  right  before  the  professor's  eyes, 
snatched  the  card  from  my  hand,  and  gave  me  his.  I 
glanced  at  his  card.     It  was  Newton's  binomial  theorem. 

The  professor  was  not  an  old  man  ;  and  he  had  a  jileasant, 
sensible  expression,  to  which  the  extremely  prominent  lower 
l)art  of  his  forehead  particularly  contributed. 

''  What  is  this,  gentlemen?  you  have  exchanged  cards?" 

"  No,  he  gave  me  his  to  look  at,  professor,"  said  ikonin, 
inventing, — and  again  the  word  professor  was  the  last  one 
he  uttered  in  that  place;  and  again,  as  he  retired  past  me, 
Ihe  glanced  at  the  professors,  at  me,  smiled,  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders,  with  an  expression  as  much  as  to  say,  ''  No  mat- 
ter, brother  !  "  (I  afterwards  learned  that  this  was  the  third 
year  that  Ikonin  had  presented  himself  for  the  entrance  ex- 
aniiiiati<ju.) 

I  answered  the  question  which  I  had  just  gone  over,  excel- 
lently,—  even  better,  as  the  professor  told  me,  than  would 
have  been  required,  —  and  received  live. 


YOUTH.  239 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE    LATIN    EXAMINATION. 

All  went  on  finely  until  the  Latin  examination.  The 
gymnasist  лvith  his  neck  bound  up  was  first,  Semenoff  second, 
I  was  the  third.  I  ел^еп  began  to  feel  proud,  and  to  think 
that,  in  spite  of  ni}^  youth,  I  was  not  to  be  taken  in  jest. 

From  the  very  first  examination,  everybody  had  been 
talking  with  terror  of  the  Latin  professor,  who  was  repre- 
sented as  a  kind  of  wild  beast  wlio  took  delight  in  the  desti'uc- 
tiou  of  young  men,  especially  of  such  as  lived  at  their  own 
expense,  and  as  speaking  onl}^  in  the  Latin  or  Greek  tongue. 
St.  Jerome,  who  was  my  instructor  in  the  Latin  language, 
encouraged  me  ;  and  it  reall}'  seemed  to  me,  that  since  I 
could  translate  from  Cicero  and  several  odes  of  Horace 
without  a  lexicon,  and  since  I  knew  Zumpt  veiy  well  indeed, 
I  was  no  worse  prepared  than  the  rest.  But  it  turned  out 
otherwise.  All  the  morning  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard 
but  tales  of  the  failures  of  those  who  preceded  me  ;  this  one 
had  been  marked  zero  ;  another,  one  ;  and  still  another  had 
been  scolded  terril)ly,  and  had  been  on  the  point  of  getting 
turned  out.  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  Semenoff  and  the  first 
gymnasist  alone  went  up  and  returned  with  as  much  com- 
posure as  usual,  having  each  received  five.  I  already  had  a 
presentiment  of  disaster,  when  I  was  called  up  with  Ikon  in 
to  the  little  table,  facing  which  the  terrible  professor  sat 
quite  alone.  The  ten-ible  professor  was  a  small,  thin,  yellow 
man,  with  long  oil}'  hair  and  a  very  thoughtful  countenance. 

He  gave  Ikouin  a  volume  of  Cicero's  Orations,  and  made 
him  translate. 

To  my  great  amazement.  Ikoniu  not  only  read,  but  even 
translated  several  lines,  with  the  aid  of  the  professor,  who 
prompted  him.     Conscious  of  my  snpeiiority  over  such   a. 
feel)le   rival,   I   could   not  refrain    from   smiling,    and   from 
doing  so  in  a  rather  scornful  лгау  too,  Avhen  the  question  of 


240  YOUTH. 

analysis  came  up,  and  Ikonin,  as  before,  sank  into  stubl)orn 
silence.  1  meant  to  conciliate  the  professor  by  that  intelli- 
gent, slightly  ironical  smile ;  but  it  turned  out  the  other 
way. 

"  You  evidently  know  better,  since  you  smile,"  said  the 
professor  to  me  m  bad  Russian.  "Let  us  see.  Come,  do 
you  say  it." 

1  learned  afterwards  that  the  Latin  professor  was  Ikonin 's 
protector,  and  that  Ikonin  eveu  lived  with  him.  I  imme- 
diately replied  to  the  question  in  syntax  which  had  been 
propounded  to  Ikonin  ;  but  the  professor  put  on  a  sad 
expression,  and  turned  away  from  me. 

"Very  good,  sir;  your  turn  will  come;  we  shall  see  how 
much  you  know,"  said  he,  not  looking  at  me,  and  began  to 
explain  to  Ikonin  what  he  had  questioned  him  on. 

"  Go,"  said  he  ;  and  I  saw  him  set  down  four  for  Ikonin 
in  the  register.  "Well,"  thought  I,  "he  is  not  nearly  as 
stern  as  they  said."  After  Ikouin's  departure,  —  for  at 
least  five  minutes,  which  seemed  to  me  five  hours,  —  he 
arranged  his  books  and  cards,  blew  his  nose,  adjusted  his 
arm-chair,  threw  himself  back  in  it,  and  looked  round  the 
room,  and  on  all  sides  except  in  my  direction.  But  all  this 
dissimulation  seemed  to  him  insufficient.  He  opened  a  book, 
and  pretended  to  read  it,  as  though  1  were  not  there.  I 
stepped  up  nearer,  and  coughed. 

"Ah,  yes!  Are  you  still  there?  Well,  translate  some- 
thing," said  he,  handing  me  a  book.  "  But  no;  better  take 
this  one."  He  turned  over  the  leaves  of  a  copy  of  Horace, 
and  opened  it  at  a  passage  which  it  seemed  to  me  nobody 
ever  could  have  translated. 

"  I  have  not  prepared  this,"  said  I. 

"And  you  want  to  recite  what  you  have  learned  b}'  heart? 
Very  good  !     No  ;  translate  this." 

I  managed  to  get  the  sense  of  it  after  a  fashion  ;  but  the 
professor  only  shook  his  head  at  each  of  my  inquiring  glances, 
and  merely  answered  "  No,"  with  a  sigh.  At  last,  he  closed 
his  book  with  such  nervous  quickness  that  he  pinched  his 
own  finger  between  the  leaves.  He  jerked  it  out  angrily, 
gave  me  a  card  in  grammar,  and,  flhiging  himself  back  in  his 
chair,  he  continued  to  preserve  the  most  malicious  silence. 
1  was  on  the  point  of  answering  ;  but  the  expression  of  his 
countenance  fettered  my  tongue,  and  every  thing  which  I 
baid  appeared  to  me  to  be  wrong. 


YOUTH.  241 

"That's  not  it!  that's  not  it!  that's  not  it  at  all!"  he 
Buddenly  broke  out  with  his  horrible  i)rouunciation  as  he 
briskl}'  changed  his  attitude,  leaned  his  elbows  on  the  table, 
and  played  with  the  gold  ling  which  clung  weakly  to  a  thin 
finger  of  his  left  hand.  "  It's  impossible,  sir,  to  prepare 
for  the  higher  educational  institutions  in  this  manner.  All 
you  want  is  to  wear  the  uniform,  with  its  blue  collar,  and 
brag  of  being  first,  and  think  that  you  can  be  students.  No, 
gentlemen  ;  you  must  be  thoroughly  grounded  in  your  sub- 
ject;  "  and  so  forth,  and  so  fortli. 

During  the  whole  of  this  speech,  which  was  uttered  in 
broken  language,  1  gazed  with  dull  attention  at  his  eyes, 
which  were  fixed  on  the  floor.  At  first,  the  disenchantment 
of  not  being  third  tortured  me  ;  then  the  fear  of  not  getting 
through  my  examination  at  all ;  and.  finally,  a  sense  of  injus- 
tice was  added,  of  wounded  vanity  and  unmerited  humilia- 
tion. Besides  this,  contempt  for  the  professor  because  he 
was  not,  in  my  opinion,  a  man  comme  il  faat,  —  Avhicli  I 
discerned  b}'  looking  at  his  short,  strong,  round  nails,  — 
influenced  me  still  more,  and  rendered  all  these  feelings  poi- 
sonous, lie  glanced  at  me  ;  and,  perceiving  my  quivering 
lips  and  my  eyes  filled  with  tears,  he  must  have  construed 
my  emotion  into  a  prayer  to  increase  my  mark,  and  he  said, 
as  though  compassionating  me  (and  before  another  professor, 
too,  who  had  come  up),  — 

"  Very  good,  sir.  1  will  give  you  a  xevy  fine  mark  "  (that 
meant  two),  "  although  you  do  not  deserve  it,  out  of  respect 
to  your  youth,  and  in  the  hope  that  you  will  not  be  so  light- 
minded  in  the  university." 

This  last  i)hrase,  uttered  in  the  presence  of  the  strange 
professor,  who  looked  at  me  as  if  to  sa}',  "There,  you  see, 
young  man!"  completed  my  confusion.  For  one  moment, 
a  mist  A^eiled  my  eyes  ;  the  terrible  professor,  with  his  table, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  sitting  somewhere  in  the  far  distance, 
and  the  wild  thought  came  into  m}-  mind,  with  a  terrible 
one-sided  distinctness:  "  And  what  if  —  what  will  come  of 
this?"  But  I  did  not  do  it,  for  some  reason  ;  but,  on  the 
contrary,  I  saluted  both  professors  mechanicall}',  with  special 
courtes}',  and  left  the  table,  smiling  sliglitly,  with  the  same 
smile,  apparently,  that  Ikonin  had  exhil)ited. 

This  injustice  affected  me  so  powerfully  at  the  time,  that, 
had  I  been  master  of  my  own  actions,  I  should  not  have 
gone  to  any  more  examinations.    I  lost  all  my  vanity  (it  was 


242  YOUTH. 

impossible  to  think  any  longer  of  being  nnmber  three),  finrl  I 
let  the  remaining  examinations  pass  witliout  any  exertion, 
and  even  without  emotion.  My  average,  however,  was  some- 
what over  four,  but  this  did  not  interest  me  in  the  least : 
I  made  up  luy  mind,  and  proved  it  to  myself  very  clearly, 
that  it  was  bad  form  to  try  to  be  first,  and  that  one  ought 
to  be  neither  too  good  nor  too  bad,  like  Volodya.  I  meant  to 
keep  to  this  in  the  university,  although  I,  for  the  first  time, 
differed  from  m}^  friend  on  this  point. 

1  was  already  thinking  of  m}'  uniform,  my  three-cornered 
hat,  my  own  drozhky,  my  own  room,  and,  most  of  all,  of  my 
freedom. 


YOUTH.  243 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

I    AM    GROWN    UP. 

And  even  these  thoughts  had  their  cliarra. 

On  my  returu  from  the  last  examination  in  the  Law  of 
God,  on  the  Hth  of  Ma}-,  I  found  at  the  house  a  tailor's 
apprentice,  whom  I  knew,  from  Kosanoff,  who  had  ah-eady 
brought  my  finished  uniform  and  a  coat  of  glossy  black  cloth, 
open  at  the  throat,  and  had  marked  the  revers  with  chalk, 
and  had  now  l)rought  the  finished  garment  with  brilliant  gilt 
buttons,  enveloped  in  papers. 

I  put  on  this  garment,  and  thought  it  very  fine  (although 
St.  Jerome  declared  that  it  wrinkled  in  the  back),  and  went 
down-stairs  with  a  self-satisfied  smile,  which  spread  over  my 
face  quite  involuntarily,  to  find  Volodya,  conscious  of  the 
glances  of  the  domestics  which  were  eagerl}'  fixed  on  me  from 
the  ante-room  and  corridor,  but  pretending  that  I  was  not. 
Gavrilo,  the  butler,  overtook  me  in  the  hall,  congratulated 
me  on  my  entrance,  handed  over  to  me,  by  papa's  orders, 
four  Avhite  bank-bills,  and  also,  by  papa's  direction,  Kuzma 
the  coachman,  a  proly6tka,■^  and  the  brown  horse  Beauty, 
to  be  at  my  exclusive  disposal  from  that  day  forth.  I  was  so 
rejoiced  at  this  almost  unlooked-for  happiness,  that  I  could 
not  manage  to  appear  indifferent  before  Gavrilo,  and  in  some 
confusion  I  said  with  a  sigh  the  first  thmg  which  came  into 
my  head,  which  was  that  Beauty  was  a  ver^'  fine  trotter ! 
Glancing  at  the  heads  which  were  thrust  out  of  the  doors 
leading  from  the  ante-room  and  corridor,  I  could  no  longer 
control  myself  ;  and  I  rushed  through  the  hall  at  a  trot,  in 
my  new  coat  and  shining  brass  buttons.  As  I  entered 
Volodya's  room,  I  heard  the  voices  of  Dubkoff  and  Nekhliu- 
doff,  who  had  come  to  congratulate  me,  and  to  propose  that 
we  sliould  go  somewhere  to  dine  and  drink  champagne,  in 
honor  of  my  entrance.     Dmitri  t(;ld  me  that,  although  he  did 

1  A  kind  of  diozhky. 


244  TOUT  п. 

not  care  to  drink  ehampngne,  he  would  go  with  ns  that  day 
in  order  to  drink  with  me  on  our  beginning  to  call  each  other 
thou.  Dubkoff  dechired  that,  for  some  I'eason,  I  reseral)led 
a  colonel.  Volodja  did  not  congiatulate  me,  and  only  said 
very  dryly,  that  now  we  should  be  able  to  set  out  for  tlie 
country  on  the  next  da}^  but  one.  it  seemed  as  though, 
while  glad  of  my  entrance,  it  was  rathei'  disagreeable  to  him 
that  I  should  now  be  as  much  grown  up  as  he.  St.  Jerome, 
who  had  also  come  to  the  house,  said  in  a  лег\  liaughty  way 
that  his  duties  were  now  at  an  end,  and  he  di-l  not  know 
whether  they  had  been  fulfilled  well  or  ill,  but  that  he  had  done 
all  he  could,  and  he  should  go  to  his  Count  on  the  next  day. 
In  answer  to  all  that  was  said  to  me,  I  felt  a  sweet,  blissful, 
rather  foolishly  self-satisfied  smile  dawn  upon  my  counte- 
nance against  my  will  ;  and  I  perceived  that  this  smile  even 
communicated  itself  to  all  who  talked  with  me. 

And  here  I  am,  Avithout  a  tutor ;  I  have  a  drozhky  of  my 
fowu  ;  ni}'  name  is  inscribed  on  the  register  of  students  ;  I 
have  a  dagger  in  my  belt ;  the  sentries  might  sometimes 
salute  me.     "  I  am  grown  up,"  and  1  think  1  am  happy. 

We  decided  to  dine  at  Jahr's  at  five  o'clock ;  but  as 
Volod^'a  went  oif  with  DubkoflT,  and  Dmitri  also  disappeaied 
somewhere  according  to  custom,  saying  that  he  had  an  affair 
to  attend  to  before  dinner,  I  could  dispose  of  two  hours  as 
I  pleased.  I  Avalked  about  through  all  the  rooms  for  quite  a 
while,  inspecting  myself  in  all  the  mirrors,  now  with  my  coat 
buttoned,  again  with  it  quite  unbuttoned,  then  with  onlv  tiie 
upper  button  fastened  ;  and  every  way  seemed  excellent  to 
ime.  Then,  ashamed  as  I  was  to  exhibit  too  much  joy,  I  could 
not  refrain  from  going  to  the  stable  and  coach-house,  to 
inspect  Beauty,  Kuzma,  and  tlie  drozhky  ;  tlien  I  went  liack 
and  began  to  wander  through  the  rooms,  looking  in  the  mir- 
rois,  counting  the  money  in  my  pocket,  and  smiling  in  the 
same  blissful  manner  all  the  while.  But  an  hour  had  not 
elapsed  when  I  felt  rather  bored,  or  sorry  that  there  was  no 
one  to  see  me  in  that  dazzling  state  ;  and  I  craved  movement 
and  activity.  As  a  consequence  of  this,  I  ordered  the 
drozhky  to  be  brought  round,  and  decided  that  it  would  be 
better  to  go  to  the  Kuznetzky  ■^  bridge,  and  make  some  pur- 
chases. 

I  recollected  that  when  Volodya  entered  the  nniversitv  he 
had  bought  himself  a  lithograph  of  Victor  Adam's  horses, 

^  The  smilhs'  bridge. 


YOUTH.  245 

some  tobacco,  and  a  pipe ;  and  it  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
indispensable  tliat  1  should  do  the  same. 

I  drove  to  the  Kuznetzky  bridge,  with  glances  tiu'ned  on 
me  from  all  sides,  with  the  bright  sunlight  on  my  buttons,  on 
the  cockade  in  my  hat,  and  on  m}'  dagger,  and  drew  up  near 
Datziaro's  picture-shop.  I  glanced  about  me  on  all  sides, 
and  entered.  I  did  not  want  to  buy  Victor  Adam's  horses, 
lest  I  should  be  accused  of  aping  ^Ъlodya  ;  but  hurrying  to 
make  my  choice  as  quickly  as  possible,  out  of  shame  at  the 
trouble  to  which  I  was  putting  the  polite  shopman,  I  took  a 
female  head  painted  in  water-colors,  wdiich  stood  in  the  win- 
dow, and  paid  twenty  rubles  for  it.  But  after  expending 
twenty  rubles  I  felt  rather  conscience-stricken  at  having  trou- 
bled the  two  handsomely  dressed  shopmen  with  such  trifles, 
and  yet  it  seemed  as  though  they  looked  at  me  in  altogether 
too  negligent  a  way.  Desirous  of  letting  them  undei'stand 
who  I  was,  I  turned  my  attention  to  a  small  silver  piece 
which  lay  beneath  the  glass,  and,  learning  that  it  was  a 
pencil-holder  worth  eighteen  rubles,  I  ordered  it  done  up  in 
paper,  paid  my  money,  and,  learning  also  that  good  pipes  and 
tobacco  were  to  be  had  in  the  adjoining  tobacco-shoy),  1  bowed 
politely  to  the  two  shopmen,  and  stepi)ed  into  the  street  with 
my  picture  under  my  arm.  In  the  neighboring  shop,  on 
whose  sign  was  painted  a  negro  smoking  a  cigar.  I  bought 
(also  out  of  a  desire  not  to  imitate  any  one)  not  Zhukoft",  but 
Sultan  tobacco,  a  Turkish  pipe,  and  two  tchibouks,  one  of 
linden,  the  other  of  rosewood.  On  emerging  from  the  shop, 
on  my  way  to  my  drozhky,  I  percei'^ed  Semenoff,  who  was 
walking  along  the  sidewalk  at  a  rapid  pace,  dressed  in  civil 
costume,  and  with  his  head  bent  down.  I  was  vexed  that  he 
did  not  recognize  me.  I  said  in  quite  a  loud  tone,  ''Drive 
up!"  and,  seating  myself  in  the  drozhky,  I  overto' ' 
8emenoff. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  I  said  to  him. 

"  ]M'v  resi)ects,"  he  answered,  pursuing  his  way. 

''  Why  are  you  not  in  uniform?  "  I  inquired. 

Semenoff  halted,  screwed  up  his  eyes,  and  shoAVcd  hisлvhite 
teeth,  as  though  it  pained  him  to  look  at  the  sun,  but  in 
reality  to  express  his  inditference  towards  my  drozhky  and 
uniform,  gazed  at  me  in  silence,  and  walked  on. 

From  the  Kuznetzky  l)ridge  I  drove  to  the  confectioner's 
shop  on  the  Tversky  :  and  though  I  tried  to  pretend  that  the 
ue\vsi)a[)ers  in  tin-  shop  intercbted  me  piincii)ally,  1  could  not 


246  YOUTH. 

restrain  myself,  and  I  began  to  devoi:r  one  sweet  tart  after 
another.  Although  I  was  ashamed  before  the  gentlemen  who 
gazed  at  me  witii  curiosity  from  behind  their  papers,  I  ate 
eight  patties,  of  all  the  sorts  which  were  in  the  shop,  with 
great  rapidity. 

On  arriving  at  home,  I  felt  a  little  heart-burn,  but  paying 
no  attention  to  it  I  busied  myself  with  examining  my  pur- 
chases. The  picture  so  displeased  me,  that  I  not  only  did 
not  have  it  framed,  and  hang  it  in  my  room,  as  Volodya  had 
done,  but  I  even  hid  it  in  a  drawer  where  no  one  could  see  it. 
The  porte-сгаз'оп  did  not  please  me  now  that  I  had  got  it 
home,  either.  I  laid  it  on  the  table,  comforting  myself  with 
the  thought  that  the  thing  was  made  of  silver,  expensive,  and 
extremely  useful  to  a  student. 

But  I  resolved  to  put  my  smoking-utensils  into  immediate 
use,  and  try  them. 

Having  unsealed  a  quarter-of-a-pound  package,  and  care- 
fully filled  my  Turkish  pii)e  with  the  reddish-yellow,  fine-cut 
Sultan  tobacco,  I  laid  a  burning  coal  upon  it,  and  taking  one 
of  my  pipe-stems  between  my  middle  and  third  fingers  (the 
position  of  the  hand  pleased  me  extremely),  I  began  to 
smoke. 

The  odor  of  the  tobacco  was  very  agreeable,  but  my  mouth 
tasted  bitter,  and  my  breathing  was  interrupted.  But  I  took 
courage,  and  drew  the  smoke  into  myself  for  quite  a  long 
time,  tried  to  puff  it  out  in  rings,  and  draw  the  smoke  in. 
The  whole  room  was  soon  filled  with  clouds  of  bluish  smoke  ; 
the  pipe  began  to  bubble,  the  hot  tobacco  to  leap  ;  I  felt  a  bit- 
terness in  my  mouth,  and  a  slight  swimming  in  my  head  ;  I 
tried  to  rise,  and  look  at  myself  in  the  glass  with  my  pipe  ; 
Avhen,  to  my  amazement,  I  began  to  stagger,  the  room  whirled 
round,  and  as  I  glanced  in  the  mirror,  which  I  had  reached 
with  ditficulty,  I  saw  that  my  face  was  as  pale  as  a  sheet.  I 
barely  succeeded  in  dropping  upon  a  divan,  when  I  was  sensi- 
l)le  of  such  illness  and  feebleness,  that,  fancying  the  pipe  had 
been  fatal  to  me,  I  thought  that  I  was  dying.  1  was  seriously 
alarmed,  and  wanted  to  sunnnon  assistance,  and  send  for  the 
doctor. 

But  this  terror  did  not  last  long.  I  quickly  understood 
where  the  trouble  was  ;  and  I  lay  for  a  long  time  on  the 
lounge,  weak,  with  a  frightful  pain  in  my  head,  gazing  with 
dull  attention  at  Bostandzhoglo's  arms  delineated  upon  the 
quarter-pound  package,  on  the  pipe   and   smoking-utensils, 


YOUTH.  247 

and  the  remains  of  the  confectioner's  patties  rolling  on  the 
floor,  and  tlionght  sadl}'  in  my  disenchantment,  '•  I  surely 
am  not  grown  up  yet,  if  I  cannot  smoke  like  other  people  ; 
and  it  is  plain  that  it  is  not  my  fate  to  hold  my  pipe,  like 
others,  between  my  middle  and  ray  third  fingers,  to  swallow 
m}-  smoke,  and  puff  it  out  through  my  blonde  mustache." 

When  Dmitri  came  to  me  at  йл-е  o'clock,  he  found  me  in 
this  unpleasant  condition.  But  after  I  had  drank  a  glass  of 
water  1  was  nearly  well  again,  and  ready  to  go  with  him. 

^'^  What  made  you  want  to  smoke?  "  he  said,  as  he  gazed 
upon  the  traces  of  my  smoking:  '' it's  all  nonsense,  and  a 
useless  Avaste  of  money.  I  have  promised  myself  that  I  will 
never  smoke.  However,  let's  set  out  as  quickly  as  possible, 
for  we  must  go  after  Dubkoff." 


248  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

now    VOLODYA    AND    DUBKOFF    OCCUPIED    ТНЕМЗЕЬЛ'ЕЗ. 

As  soon  as  Dmitri  entered  the  room,  I  knew  by  his  face, 
his  walk,  and  by  a  gesture  Avhieh  was  peculiar  to  him  when 
in  a  bad  humor,  —  a  winking  of  the  eyes  and  a  grotesque  way 
of  drawing  his  head  down  on  one  side,  —  that  he  was  in  the 
coldly  rigid  frame  of  mind  which  came  over  him  when  he  was 
displeased  with  himself,  and  which  always  produced  a  chill- 
ing effect  upon  my  feeling  for  him.  I  had  lately  1>egun  to 
notice  and  judge  my  friend's  character,  but  our  friendship 
had  suffered  no  change  in  consequence  ;  it  was  still  so  youth- 
ful and  so  strong,  that,  from  whatever  point  of  view  I  looked 
at  Dmitri,  I  could  not  but  perceive  his  perfection.  There 
were  two  separate  men  in  him,  both  of  whom  were  vei'y  fine 
in  my  eyes.  One,  whom  I  warmly  loved,  was  courteous, 
good,  gentle,  merry,  and  with  a  consciousness  of  these  ami- 
able qualities  :  when  he  was  in  this  mood,  his  whole  appeai"- 
ance,  the  sound  of  his  voice,  his  every  moл■ement,  seemed  to 
say,  "I  am  gentle  and  virtuous;  I  en jo}' being  gentle  and 
virtuous,  as  you  can  all  of  you  perceive."  The  other  —  I 
have  only  now  begun  to  comprehend  him  and  to  bow  before 
his  grandeur  —  was  cold,  stern  towards  himself  and  others, 
proud,  religious  to  fanaticism,  and  pedantically  moral.  At 
the  present  moment,  he  w^as  that  second  man. 

AVith  the  frankness  which  constituted  the  indispensable 
condition  of  our  relations,  I  told  him,  when  we  were  seated 
in  the  drozhky,  that  it  pained  me  and  made  me  sad  to  see 
him  in  such  a  heavy,  disagreeable  frame  of  mind  towards  me 
on  the  day  which  was  such  a  happy  one  to  me. 

"  Surely  something  has  disturbed  3'ou  :  why  will  you  not 
tell  me?  "  I  asked. 

"  Nikolinka  !  "  he  replied  deliberately,  turning  his  head 
nervously  to  one  side,  and  screwing  u|)  his  eyes  :  ''since  I 
have  given  my.  word  not  to  hide  any  thing  from  you,  you 


YOUTH.  249 

have  no  cause  to  suspect  me  of  secrecy.  It  is  impossible  to 
be  always  iu  the  same  mood  ;  and  if  any  thing  has  disturbed 
me,  I  cannot  even  give  an  account  of  it  to  myself." 

'' What  a  wonderfully  frank,  honorable  character!"  I 
thought,  and  I  said  no  more  to  him. 

ЛУе  drove  to  Dubkoff's  in  silence.  Dubkoff's  quarters  were 
remarkably  handsome,  or  seemed  so  to  me  then.  There  were 
rugs,  i)ictures,  curtains,  colored  hangings,  portraits,  curving 
armchairs  everywhere  :  on  the  walls  hung  guns,  pistols,  to- 
bacco-pouches, and  some  heads  of  wild  animals  in  cardboard. 
At  the  sight  of  this  study,  I  saw  whom  Volodya  had  been 
imitating  in  the  adornment  of  his  own  chamber.  We  found 
Volodya  and  Dubkoff  playing  cards.  A  gentleman  who  was 
a  stranger  to  me  (and  who  must  have  been  of  little  impor- 
tance, judging  from  his  humble  attitude)  was  sitting  at  the 
table,  and  watching  the  game  with  great  attention.  Dubkoti 
had  on  a  silk  dressing-gown  and  soft  shoes.  Volodya  in  his 
shirt-sleeves  was  sitting  opposite  him  on  the  sofa  ;  and  judg- 
ing from  his  flushed  face,  and  the  dissatisfied,  fleeting  glance 
which  he  tore  away  from  the  cards  for  a  moment  to  cast  at 
us,  he  was  very  much  absorbed  in  the  game.  On  catching 
sight  of  me,  he  turned  still  redder. 

"Come,  it's  your  turn  to  deal,"  he  said  to  Dulikoff.  I 
comprehended  that  it  displeased  him  to  have  me  know  that 
he  played  cards.  But  there  was  no  confusion  discernible  in 
his  glance,  which  seemed  to  say  to  me,  "  Yes,  I'm  playing, 
and  you  are  only  surprised  at  it  because  you  are  3'oung  yet. 
It  is  not  only  not  bad,  but  even  necessary,  at  our  age." 

I  immediately  felt  and  understood  this. 

Dubkoff  did  not  deal  the  cards,  however,  but  rose,  shook 
hands  with  us,  gave  us  seats,  and  offered  us  pipes,  which  we 
declined. 

"  So  this  is  our  diplomat,  the  hei'o  of  the  festival,"  said 
Dubkoff.     "  By  heavens,  he's  awfully  like  the  colonel." 

"  Hm  !  "  I  growled,  as  I  felt  that  foolishly  self-satisfied 
smile  spreading  over  my  face. 

I  respected  Dubkoff  as  only  a  boy  of  sixteen  can  respect 
an  adjutant  of  twenty-seven  whom  all  the  grown-up  peojile 
declare  to  be  a  very  fine  young  man,  who  dances  beautifully, 
and  talks  French,  and  who,  while  he  in  his  soul  despises  my 
youth,  evidentl}'  strives  to  conceal  the  fact. 

I')Ut  in  spite  of  all  my  respect  for  him,  I  had  alwnys.  Heaven 
knows  wli}",  during  the  whole  period  of  our  acquaintance, 


250  YOUTH. 

found  it  difficult  and  awkward  to  look  him  in  the  eye.  And 
I  have  since  observed  that  there  are  three  classes  of  people 
whom  it  is  difficult  for  me  to  look  in  the  eye,  — those  who  are 
much  worse  than  m^'self  ;  those  who  are  much  belter  than 
myself  ;  and  those  with  whom  I  cannot  make  up  my  mind  to 
mention  things  that  we  both  know,  and  wlio  will  not  mention 
them  to  me.  Possil)ly  Dubkoff  was  better  than  I,  perhaps  he 
was  worse  :  but  one  thing  was  certain,  that  he  often  lied,  but 
without  confessing  it ;  that  I  detected  this  weakness  in  him, 
of  course,  but  could  not  l)ring  myself  to  speak  of  it. 

*•'  Let's  play  one  more  game,"  said  Volodya,  twisting  his 
shoulders  like  papa,  and  shuffling  the  cards. 

''  How  persistent  he  is  !  "  said^'Dubkoff.  "  We'll  play  it 
out  later.     Well,  then,  one.     Hand  them  here." 

While  they  played,  I  watched  their  hands.  Volodya  had 
a  large,  handsome  hand.  He  separated  his  thumb  and  bent 
the  other  fingers  out  when  he  held  his  cards,  and  it  was  so 
much  like  papa's  hand  that  at  one  time  it  really  seemed  to 
me  that  Volodya  held  his  hands  so  on  purpose,  in  order 
to  resemble  a  grown-up  person  ;  but,  Avhen  I  glanced  at  his 
face,  it  became  immediateh'  evident  that  he  was  thinking  of 
nothing  except  his  game.  Dubkott's  hands,  on  the  contrary, 
were  small,  phimp,  bent  inwards,  and  had  extremely  soft  and 
skilful  fingers  ;  just  the  kind  of  hands,  in  fact,  which  suit 
rings,  and  which  belong  to  people  who  are  inclined  to  man- 
ual labor,  and  are  fond  of  having  fine  things. 

^'olodya  must  have  lost ;  for  the  gentleman  who  looked 
over  his  cards  remai-ked  that  Madimir  Fetrovitch  had  fright- 
fully bad  luck ;  and  DuI)koff  got  his  portfolio,  and  noted 
something  down  in  it,  and  said,  as  he  showed  Avhat  he  had 
written  to  Volodya,  ''  Is  that  right?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Volodya,  glancing  at  the  note-book  with 
feigned  abstraction.     ''  Now  let's  go." 

Volod3'a  drove  Dubkoff,  and  Dmitri  took  me  in  his 
phaeton. 

"  Wliat  were  they  playing?  "  I  inquired  of  Dmitri. 

"Piquet.  It's  a  stupid  game,  and  gambling  is  a  stupid 
thing,  an}'  way." 

' '  Do  they  play  for  large  sums  ?  ' ' 

"  Not  very  ;  but  it's  not  right,  all  the  same."  _ 

"And  do  you  not  play?" 

"No;  I  have  given  my  word  not  to;  but  Dubkoff  can't 
give  his  not  to  win  all  somebody's  monej-  away." 


YOUTH.  251 

"  But  that  surely  is  not  right  ou  his  part,"  said  I.  "  Volo- 
dya  must  pla}'  worse  tiian  he." 

''Of  course  it's  not  right ;  but  there's  nothing  particularly 
wicked  about  it.  Dubkott'  loves  to  play,  but  still  he's  au 
excellent  fellow." 

"  Ijut  1  had  no  idea  "  —  said  I. 

"  You  must  not  think  any  ill  of  him,  because  he  really  i^ 
a  very  hue  man  ;  and  1  am  very  fond  of  him,  and  shall  ahvay 
love  him  in  spite  of  his  weaknesses." 

It  seemed  to  me,  for  some  reason,  that,  just  because  Dmi- 
tri stood  up  for  Dubkoff  with  too  much  Avarmth,  he  no  longer 
loved  or  respected  him,  but  that  he  would  not  coufess  it,  out 
of  ol)stinacy,  and  in  order  that  no  one  might  reproach  him 
with  fickleness.  He  Avas  one  of  those  people  who  love  their 
friends  for  life,  not  so  much  because  the  friends  always 
remain  amiable  towards  them,  as  because,  having  once  token 
a  liking  to  a  man,  even  by  mistake,  they  consider  it  dis- 
honorable to  cease  to  like  him. 


252  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

I    RECEIVE    CONGRATULATIONS. 

DuBKOFP  and  Volodya  knew  all  the  people  at  Jabr's  Ъу 
name  ;  and  every  one,  from  porter  to  pr(;prietor,  showed 
them  the  greatest  respect.  We  were  immediately  conducted 
to  a  private  room,  and  served  with  a  wonderful  dinner, 
selected  by  Dubkoff  from  the  French  bill  of  fare.  A  bottle 
of  cool  champagne,  which  I  endeavored  to  survey  with  as 
much  indift'erence  as  possible,  was  already  prei)arod.  The 
dinner  passed  off  very  agreea))!}'  and  merrily,  although  Dub- 
koft",  as  was  his  custom,  related  the  strangest  occurrences  as 
though  they  were  true,  — among  others,  how  his  grandmother 
had  shot  three  robbers,  who  had  attacked  her,  with  a  blun- 
derbuss (wherenpou  I  blushed,  dropped  my  eyes,  and  tui-n»  d 
away  from  him),  —  and  although  Volodya  was  visibly  fright- 
ened every  time  that  I  undertook  to  say  any  thing  (which 
was  quite  sui)erfluous  ;  for  I  did  not  say  any  thing  particu- 
larly disgraceful,  so  far  as  I  can  remember).  When  the 
champagne  was  served,  all  congratulated  me,  and  I  drnnk 
thi'ough  my  hand  ''to  thou"  with  Dubkotf  and  Dmitri,  and 
exchanged  kisses  with  them.  As  I  did  not  know  to  whom 
the  bottle  of  champagne  Itelonged  (it  was  in  common,  as 
they  afterwards  explained  to  me),  and  I  wanted  to  entertain 
my  friends  on  my  own  money,  which  I  felt  of  incessantly 
in  my  pocket,  I  quietly  got  hold  of  a  ten-ruble  note  ;  and, 
smnmoning  the  waiter,  I  gave  him  the  money,  and  told  him 
in  a  whisper,  but  in  such  a  manner  that  they  all  heard  it.  to 
])le(ise  to  bring  another  small  bottle  of  champagne.  Volo- 
dya turned  red,  writhed,  and  looked  at  me  and  the  rest  in 
affright ;  but  the  bottle  was  brought,  and  we  drank  it  Avith 
the  greatest  satisfaction.  Things  continued  to  go  merrily. 
Dubkoff  lied  without  intermission  ;  and  Volodya,  too,  told 
such  funny  stories,  and  told  them  better  than  I  had  ever 
expected  of  him  ;  and  we  laughed  a  great  deal.     U'he  char- 


Yourn.  253 

acter  of  their  wit  —  that  is,  Dubkoff's  and  Volodya's  — 
consisted  iu  mimicry,  and  exaggeration  of  the  well-known 
anecdote  :  ''  Well,  have  you  been  abroad?  "  says  one.  '■^  No, 
I  have  not,"  replies  the  other,  "but  my  brother  plays  on 
the  violin."  They  had  attained  such  perfection  iu  this  sort 
of  comic  nonsense,  that  they  even  related  that  anecdote 
thus:  "My  brother  never  played  on  the  violin  either." 
They  replied  to  every  one  of  each  other's  questions  in  this 
style  ;  and  sometimes  they  tried,  without  questions,  to  join 
two  utterl}- incongruous  things,  —  talked  this  nonsense  with 
sober  faces,  —  and  it  proved  extremely  laughable.  I  began 
to  understand  the  point,  and  I  also  tried  to  tell  something- 
funny  ;  but  they  all  looked  frightened,  or  tried  not  to  look 
at  me  while  I  was  speaking,  and  the  anecdote  was  not  a 
success.  Dubkoff  said,  "The  diplomat  has  begun  to  lie, 
brother;"  but  I  felt  so  well  with  the  champagne  I  had 
drunk,  and  in  the  company  of  these  grown-up  people,  that 
this  remark  hardly  wounded  me  at  all.  Dmitri  alone,  though 
lie  had  drunk  evenly  with  us,  continued  in  the  stern,  serious 
mood,  which  put  some  restraint  upon  the  general  merriment. 

"  Now  listen,  gentlemen  !"  said  Dubkoff.  "After  dinner, 
the  dii)lomat  must  be  taken  in  hand  Shall  we  not  go  to  our 
aunt's  ?     AYe'U  soon  settle  him  there." 

"  Nekhlindoff  won't  go,"  said  Volodya. 

"The  intolerable  goody!  You're  an  intolcralilo  goody," 
said  Dubkoff,  turning  to  him.  "  Come  with  us,  and  you'll 
see  what  a  charming  lady  auntie  is." 

"I  not  only  will  not  go,  but  I  won't  let  him,"  answered 
Dmitri,  turning  red. 

"Who?  the  diplomat?  —  Do  you  want  to  go,  diplomat? 
Look,  he  beamed  all  over  as  soon  as  Ave  mentioned  auntie." 

"  I  don't  mean  that  I  won't  let  him,"  contimied  Dmitri, 
rising  from  his  seat,  and  beginning  to  pace  the  room,  without 
looking  at  me,  "but  I  do  not  advise  him,  nor  wish  him  to 
go.  He  is  no  longer  a  child,  and  if  he  wishes  he  can  go 
alone  without  you.  But  3'ou  ought  to  l)e  ashamed  of  your- 
self, Dubkoff  ;  what  you  are  doing  is  not  right,  and  you  want 
others  to  do  so  too." 

"What's  the  harm,"  said  Dubkoff,  winking  at  Volodya, 
"  if  I  invite  3'ou  all  to  my  aunt's  for  a  cup  of  tea?  Well,  if 
it's  not  agreeable  to  you  to  go  with  us,  then  Volodya  and  I 
will  go.  —  Are  you  coming,  Volodya?  " 

"  Hm,  hm  !  "    said    Volodya,   a!!h-matively.      "  AVe'll    go 


254  YOUTH. 

there,  and  then  we'll  come  to  my  rooms,  and  go  on  with  our 
piquet." 

'*  Well,  do  you  want  to  go  with  them,  or  not?  "  said  Dmitri, 
coming  up  to  me. 

"  No,"  I  answered,  moving  along  on  the  sofa  to  make 
room  for  him  beside  me ;  "if  you  do  not  advise  it,  I  will  not 
go,  on  any  account. 

'' No,"  I  added  afterwards;  "I  do  not  speak  the  truth 
when  I  say  that  I  do  not  want  to  go  with  them  ;  but  1  am 
glad  that  I  am  not  going." 

''  Excellent."  said  he  :  "  live  according  to  3'our  own  ideas, 
and  don't  dance  to  any  one's  pipe  ;  that's  the  best  wa}'  of 
all." 

This  little  dispute  not  only  did  not  disturb  our  pleasure, 
but  even  heightened  it.  Dmitri  all  at  once  came  into  the 
gentle  mood  which  I  loved  so  well.  .Such  an  influence,  as  I 
afterwards  more  than  once  observed,  did  the  consciousness 
of  a  good  deed  have  upon  him.  He  was  pleased  v»ith  him- 
self now  for  having  deterred  me  from  going.  He  grew  very 
merry,  ordered  another  bottle  of  champagne  (which  was 
against  his  rules) ,  called  a  strauge  gentleman  into  the  room, 
and  began  to  give  him  wine,  sang  Gaudeamus  if/ilar, 
requested  that  all  should  join  in,  and  proposed  to  ride  to  the 
Sokolinki,  whereupon  Dubkotf  remarked  that  it  was  too  sen- 
timental. 

"Let's  be  jolly  to-da3%"  said  Dmitri,  with  a  smile  :  "in 
honor  of  his  entrance  to  the  universit}',  I  will  get  drunk  for 
the  lirst  time:  so  be  it."  This  gayet}-  sat  rather  strangely 
on  Dmitri.  He  resembled  a  tutor  or  a  kind  father  who  is 
satisfied  with  his  children,  and  wishes  to  please  them,  and  at 
the  same  time  to  shoAv  that  he  can  be  ga}'  in  an  honorable 
and  respectable  fashion  :  ncA^ertheless,  this  unexpected  mirth 
seemed  to  act  infectiously  upon  us,  the  more  so  as  each  of  us 
had  drunk  about  half  a  bottle  of  champagne. 

It  was  in  this  agreeable  frame  of  mind,  that  I  stepped  out 
info  the  public  apartment  to  smoke  a  cigarette  which  Dubkoff 
had  given  me. 

"When  I  rose  from  my  scat,  I  perceiA'cd  that  mv  head  was 
a  little  unstead}',  and  that  ni}^  feet  and  my  hands  were  in 
a  natural  condition  onl}'  Avhen  I  fixed  ni}^  atteutiou  firmly 
upon  them.  Otherwise  my  feet  crept  off  to  one  side,  and  my 
hands  executed  various  gestures.  I  fixed  my  whole  atten- 
tion upon  these  limbs,  ordered  ni}'  hands  to  rise,  and  button 


YOUTH.  255 

my  coat,  and  smooth  my  haiv  (in  the  course  of  which,  my 
elbows  jerked  themselves  up  fearfully  high),  and  my  legs  to 
carry  me  to  the  door  ;  which  command  they  complied  with, 
but  set  themselves  down  either  too  hard  or  too  gently,  and 
the  left  foot  in  particular  stood  constantly  on  its  toe.  Some 
voice  or  other  shouted  to  me,  ''  Where  are  you  going?  The}' 
are  bringing  lights."  I  guessed  that  the  voice  belonged  to 
Volodya,  and  the  thought  that  I  had  guessed  it  afforded  me 
satisfaction  ;  but  I  only  smiled  in  answer,  and  went  my  way. 


256  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE    QUARREL. 

In  the  public  room,  behind  a  little  table,  sat  a  short,  stout 
gentleman,  in  plain  clothes,  with  a  red  mustache,  engaged 
in  eating.  Beside  him,  sat  a  tall,  dark-complexioned  man, 
without  a  mustache.  They  were  conversing  in  French. 
Their  glances  confused  me,  but  I  made  up  ni}'  mind  to  light 
my  cigarette  at  the  candle  which  stood  before  them.  Glan- 
cing aside,  in  order  that  I  might  not  encounter  their  gaze,  I 
marched  up  to  the  table,  and  began  to  light  my  cigarette. 
When  the  cigarette  had  caught  the  flame,  I  could  not  resist, 
and  glanced  at  the  gentleman  who  was  dining.  His  gray 
eyes  were  fixed  intently  and  disapprovingl}^  iipon  me.  As  I 
was  about  to  turn  away,  his  red  mustache  moved,  and  he 
said  in  French,  "  I  don't  like  to  have  people  smoke  while  I 
am  dining,  my  dear  sir." 

I  muttered -some  unintelligible  reply. 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  don't  like  it,"  went  on  the  gentleman  with 
the  mustache  sternly,  with  a  quick  glance  at  the  gentleman 
who  had  no  mustache,  as  if  inviting  him  to  admire  the  man- 
ner in  which  he  was  about  to  settle  me,  —  "I  don't  like 
people  who  are  impolite,  my  dear  sir,  who  come  and  smoke 
under  one's  nose;  I  don't  like  them."  I  immediately  saw 
that  the  gentleman  was  scolding  me,  and  it  seemed  to  me  at 
first  that  I  was  very  much  in  the  wrong,  with  regard  to  him. 

"  I  did  not  think  that  it  would  disturb  you,"  said  I. 

"Ah,  you  did  not  think  you  were  ill-bred,  but  I  did!" 
shouted  the  gentleman. 

"  AVhat  right  have  you  to  yell?"  said  I,  feeling  that  he 
was  insulting  me,  and  beginning  to  get  angry  myself. 

"  This  right,  that  I  never  permit  any  one  to  be  insolent  to 
me  ;  and  I  shall  always  give  such  young  fellows  as  you  a 
lesson.  What's  your  surname,  sir?  and  where  do  you 
live?" 


тоитп.  257 

I  was  extremely  angry,  my  lips  quivered,  and  ray  breath 
came  in  gasps.  But  1  felt  that  I  was  in  the  wrong,  never- 
theless, and  it  must  have  been  because  I  had  drunk  so  much 
champagne  ;  and  I  did  not  say  any  thuig  insulting  to  the 
gentleman,  but  on  the  contrary  my  lips  uttered  my  name  and 
our  address  in  the  most  submissive  manner  possible. 

"  My  name  is  Kolpikoff,  ш}^  dear  sir,  and  see  that  you  are 
more  courteous  in  future.  You  shall  hear  from  me,"  he 
concluded,  the  whole  conversation  having  taken  place  in 
French. 

I  only  said,  "  I  am  very  glad  to  make  your  acquaintance," 
endeavoring  to  render  my  voice  as  firm  as  possible,  turned 
away,  and  went  back  to  our  room  with  my  cigarette,  which 
had  contrived  to  go  out. 

I  did  not  mention  what  had  occurred  to  my  brother,  nor  to 
mv  friend,  particularly  as  they  were  engaged  in  a  hot  dispute, ,^ 
but  seated  myself  alone  in  a  corner  to  refleot  upon  this 
strange  circumstance.  The  words,  "You  are  ill-bred,  sir," 
as  they  rang  in  my  ears,  troubled  me  more  and  more.  My 
intoxication  had  completely  passed  away.  ЛУЬеп  I  reflected 
on  my  behavior  in  the  matter,  the  strange  thought  all  at  once 
occurred  to  me  that  I  had  behaved  like  a  coward.  "  What 
right  had  he  to  attack  me?  Why  didn't  he  say  simply  that 
it  disturbed  him?  He  must  have  been  in  the  wrong.  Why, 
when  he  told  me  that  I  was  ill-bred,  did  I  not  say  to  him,  '  He 
is  ill-bred,  sir,  who  permits  himself  impertinences  ; '  or  why 
did  I  not  simply  shout  at  him,  ^  Silence!'  that  would  have 
been  capital.  Why  did  I  not  challenge  him  to  a  duel?  No, 
I  did  none  of  these  things,  but  swallowed  the  insult  like  a  vile 
coward."  "  You  are  ill-bred,  sir,"  rang  in  m}'  ears  inces- 
santly in  an  exasperating  wa}'.  "  No,  this  cannot  be  left  in 
tills  state,"  I  thought,  and  I  rose  with  the  fixed  intention  of 
going  back  to  the  gentleman,  and  saying  something  dreadful 
to  liim,  and,  possibly,  of  striking  liim  over  the  head  with  the 
candlestick  if  it  should  seem  suitable.  I  reflected  ui)on  this 
last  intention  with  the  greatest  delight,  but  it  was  not  without 
great  terror  that  I  entered  the  public  room  again.  Fortu- 
nately, Gospodin.  (Mr.)  Kolpikoff  was  no  longer  there  ;  there 
was  but  one  waiter  in  the  room,  and  he  was  clearing  the 
table.  I  wanted  to  tell  the  waiter  what  had  happened,  and 
to  explain  to  him  tliat  I  was  not  at  all  to  blame  ;  but  I 
changed  my  mind  for  some  reason  or  other,  and  returned 
again  to  our  own  room  in  the  most  gloomy  frame  of  mind. 


258  YOUTH. 

"What's  the  matter  with  our  diplomat?"  said  Dubkoff, 
"  he's  probably  deciding  the  fate  of  Europe  now." 

"Oh,  let  me  alone,"  I  said  crossly,  as  I  turned  away. 
Then,  as  1  wandered  al)Out  the  room,  I  began  to  think,  for 
some  reason,  that  Dubkoff  was  not  a  nice  man  at  all.  And 
as  for  his  eternal  jests,  and  that  nickname  of  "diplomat." 
there  was  nothing  amiable  about  them.  All  he  was  go(}d 
I  for  was  to  win  money  from  Volod3'a,  and  to  go  to  some 
launt  or  other.  And  there  was  nothing  pleasing  about  him. 
Every  thing  he  said  was  a  lie,  or  an  absurdity,  and  he  wanted 
to  laugh  eternall}'.  It  seemed  to  me  that  he  Avas  onh'  stupid, 
and  a  bad  man  to  boot.  In  such  reflections  as  these  I  sp^mt 
five  minutes,  feeling  more  and  more  inimical  towards  Dub- 
koff, But  Dubkoff  paid  no  attention  to  me,  and  this  enraged 
me  still  more,  I  even  got  angry  with  Volodya  and  Dmitri 
because  the}'  talked  to  him, 

"Do  3'ou  know  what,  gentlemen?  we  must  pour  some 
water  over  the  diplomat,"  said  Dubkoff  suddenly,  glancing 
at  me  with  what  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  mocking,  and  even 
treacherous,  smile:  "  he's  in  a  bad  way,  Bj'  heavens,  but 
he's  in  a  state  !  " 

"  You  need  to  be  ducked,  you're  in  a  bad  way  yourself," 
I  retorted  with  an  angry  smile,  even  forgetting  that  I  had 
addressed  him  as  thou. 

This  answer  must  have  amazed  Dubkoff ;  but  he  turned 
away  from  me  indifferently,  and  continued  his  couA-ersatiou 
Avith  Volodj'a  and  Dmitri, 

I  would  Ь.ал'е  tried  to  join  the  conversation,  Imt  I  felt  that 
I  certainly  should  not  be  able  to  dissemble,  and  I  again  re- 
treated to  my  corner,  where  I  remained  until  our  departure. 

When  we  had  paid  the  bill,  and  were  putting  on  our  over- 
coats, Dubkoff  said  to  Dmitri,  "  AVell,  where  are  Orestes  and 
Pylades  going?  Home,  probably,  to  converse  of  love.  We'll 
find  out  about  the  same  thing  from  our  dear  auntie:  it's 
better  than  your  sour  friendship," 

^^  How  dare  j^u  talk  so,  and  ridicule  us?"  I  said,  sud- 
denly, marching  up  to  him  and  gesticulating,  "  How  dare 
you  laugh  at  feelings  that  you  don't  understand?  I  wont 
permit  it.  Silence!  "  I  shouted,  and  became  silent  m3'self, 
not  knowing  what  to  say,  and  panting  with  agitation.  Dub- 
koff was  amazed  at  first ;  then  he  tried  to  smile,  and  took  it 
as  a  joke  ;  but  finally,  to  my  extreme  surprise,  he  got  fright- 
ened, and  dropped  his  eyes- 


тоитп.  259 

"  I  am  not  ridicnling  3^011  and  ^юпг  feelings  in  the  least: 
it'.s  only  my  way  of  talking,"  he  said  evasively. 

''80  that's  it,"  I  shonted;  but  at  the  same  time  I  was 
ashamed  of  mj'self,  and  sorry  for  Dubkolf,  лvhose  handsome, 
troubled  face  betrayed  genuine  suffering. 

''  What's  the  matter  with  you?  "  asked  Volodya  and  Dmi- 
tri together.     "  Nobod}'  meant  to  insult  you." 

"  Yes,  he  did  mean  to  insult  me." 

"  That  brother  of  yours  is  a  sauc}'  gentleman,"  said  Dub-  ' 
koff,  just  as  he  went  out  of  the  door,  so  that  he  could  not 
hear  what  I  might  say. 

Possibly,  I  might  have  rushed  after  him,  and  uttered  some 
more  impertinent  speeches ;  but,  just  at  that  moment,  the 
same  waiter  who  had  been  present  at  my  affair  with  Kol- 
pikoff  handed  me  my  coat,  and  I  immediately  calmed  down, 
feigning  only  so  much  anger  in  Dmitri's  presence  as  was 
indispensable,  in  order  that  my  instantaneous  tranquillity 
might  not  seem  queer.  The  next  day,  Dubkolf  and  I  met  in 
Volod^'a's  room.  We  did  not  allude  to  this  affair,  and  con- 
tinued to  address  each  other  as  '■'■you;"  and  it  was  more 
difficult  than  ever  for  us  to  look  each  other  in  the  eye. 

The  memory  of  my  quarrel  with  Koli)ikoff,  who  neither  on 
that  day  nor  ever  afterwards  let  me  "  hear  from  him,"  was 
frightfully  oppressive  and  vivid  for  many  years.  I  writhed 
and  screamed,  full  five  years  later,  every  time  that  I  recalled 
that  unatoned  insult ;  an(,l  comforted  myself  by  remembering, 
with  self-satisfaction,  how  manly  I  had  afty^rvvards  been  in  ' 
my  atfair  with  Dubkoff.  It  was  only  л-егу  much  later  that  I 
Itegan  to  regard  the  matter  in  quite  a  ditferent  light,  and  to 
recall  my  quarrel  with  Koli)ikoff  with  comical  satisfaction, 
and  to  repent  of  the  undeserved  wound  which  I  had  dealt 
to  tiiat  gond  little  frlloiv,  Dul)koff. 

AVhen  I  related  to  Dmitri  that  same  day  my  encounter  with 
Kolpikoff,  whose  api)earance  I  described  to  him  minutel}',  he 
was  very  much  surprised. 

"Yes,  it's  the  very  same  fellow,"  said  he.  "Just  imagine  ! 
that  Kolpikoff  is  a  well-known  scamp,  a  card-sharper,  but, 
most  of  all,  a  coward,  who  was  driven  out  of  the  regiment 
by  his  comrades  because  he  had  received  a  box  on  the  ear, 
and  would  not  fight.  Where  did  he  get  his  valor?"  he 
added,  with  a  kindh'  smile,  as  he  glanced  at  me.  "80  he 
didn't  say  any  thing  more  tlian  '  ill-bred  '  ?  " 

"  Y'es,"  1  replied,  reddening. 


260  YOUTH. 

"It's  bad;  but  there's  no  harm  done  yet,"  Dmitri  said, 
to  console  me. 

It  луаз  only  when  I  thought  this  affair  over  quietly,  long 
afterwards,  that  I  arrived  at  the  tolerably'  probable  inference 
that  Kolpikoft',  feeling,  after  the  lapse  of  many  years,  thnt 
he  could  attack  me,  had  taken  his  revenge  on  me,  in  the 
presence  of  the  beardless,  dark-complexioned  man,  for  the 
box  on  the  ear  which  he  had  once  received,  just  as  I  imme- 
diately revenged  myself  for  his  ''  ill-bred"  on  the  innocent 
Dubkoff. 


YOU  г  11.  261 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

•      I   MAKE   PREPARATIONS   TO   PAY   SOME    CALLS. 

My  first  thought,  on  waking  the  next  day,  was  my  adven- 
ture with  Kolpikoff.  Again  I  roared  and  ran  about  the 
room,  but  there  was  nothing  to  be  done:  besides,  this  was 
the  last  day  I  was  to  spend  in  Moscow  ;  and,  by  papa's 
orders,  I  was  to  make  some  calls  which  he  had  himself  writ- 
ten down  for  me.  Papa's  solicitude  for  us  was  not  so  much 
on  the  point  of  morals  and  learning  as  on  that  of  worldly 
connections.  On  the  paper  was  written  in  his  rapid,  pointed 
hand:  "  (1)  To  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  without  fail;  (2)  to 
the  Ivinfi  loithoat  fail ;  (3)  to  Prince  Mikhailo  ;  (4)  to  Prin- 
cess Nekhliudoff  and  Madame  Valakhina  if  possible  ;  "  and, 
of  course,  to  the  curator,  the  rector,  and  the  professors. 

Dmitri  dissuaded  me  from  pajnug  these  last  calls,  saying 
that  it  not  only  was  not  necessary,  but  would  even  be 
improper ;  but  all  the  rest  must  be  made  to-day.  Of  these, 
the  two  first  calls,  beside  which  without  fail  was  written, 
frightened  me  particularly.  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  was  gen- 
eral-in-chief,  an  old  man,  wealthy  and  alone  ;  so  I,  a  stu- 
dent of  sixteen,  must  have  direct  intercourse  with  him,  which 
I  had  a  presentiment  could  not  prove  at  all  flattering  to  me. 
The  Ivins  also  were  wealth}',  and  their  father  was  an  impor- 
tant civil  general,  who  had  only  been  to  our  home  once,  in 
grandmamma's  day.  After  grandmamma's  death,  I  observed 
that  the  3'oungest  Ivin  a\'oided  us,  and  seemed  to  put  on  airs. 
The  eldest,  as  I  knew  by  report,  had  already  completed  his 
course  in  law,  and  was  serving  in  Petersburg  ;  the  second, 
(Sergiei),  whom  I  had  once  adored,  was  also  in  Petersburg, 
—  a  big,  fat  cadet  in  the  Pages'  Corps.  In  my  youth,  I  not 
only  did  not  like  to  associate  with  people  who  considered 
themselves  above  me,  but  such  intercourse  was  intoleralily 
painful,  in  consequence  of  a  constant  fear  of  insult,  and  the 


262  YOU  т  гг. 

stmiiiing  of  all  my  mental  faculties  to  the  end  of  exhibiting 
my  independence.  But,  as  I  was  not  going  to  obey  papa's 
last  orders,  1  must  smoothe  matters  over  by  complying  with 
the  first.  I  paced  my  chamber,  glancing  at  niy  clotlies, 
which  were  spread  out  upou  the  chairs,  at  my  dagger  and 
hat,  and  was  already  preparing  to  go.  when  old  Grap  came 
with  his  congratulations,  bringing  Ilinka  with  him.  Father 
Grap  was  a  Russianized  German,  intolerably  mawkish  and 
flattering,  and  very  often  intoxicated.  He  generally  came 
to  us  simply  for  the  purpose  of  asking  for  something  ;  and 
papa  sometimes  let  him  sit  down  in  his  study,  but  he  never 
had  him  dine  with  us.  His  humility  and  persistent  begging 
were  so  intermingled  with  a  certain  superficial  good-nature 
and  familiarity  with  oiu"  house,  that  evei-ybody  reckoned  it 
as  a  sort  of  merit  in  him  that  he  should  be  so  attached  to  all 
of  us  ;  but,  for  some  reason,  I  never  liked  him,  and,  Avhen 
he  spoke,  I  always  felt  ashamed  for  him. 

I  was  very  much  displeased  at  the  агг1л\а1  of  these  guests, 
and  I  made  no  effort  to  conceal  my  displeasure.  I  had  be- 
come so  accustomed  to  look  down  upon  Ilinka,  and  had 
become  so  used  to  consider  that  we  were  in  the  right  in  so 
doing,  that  it  was  rather  disagreeable  for  mo  to  have  him  a 
student  as  well  as  mj'self.  It  struck  me,  too,  that  he  was 
rather  abashed,  in  my  presence,  by  this  equality.  I  greeted 
them  coldly,  and  did  not  ask  them  to  sit  down,  because  1  was 
ashamed  to  do  so,  thinking  that  they  might  do  it  without 
my  invitation  ;  and  I  ordered  my  carriage  to  be  got  ready. 
Ilinka  \vas  a  kind,  very  honorable,  and  л^егу  clever  young 
man,  but  he  was  still  what  is  called  a  man  of  caprice. 
Some  extreme  mood  was  always  coming  over  him,  and,  as 
it  appeared,  without  any  reason  wdiatever :  now  it  was  a 
weeping  mood,  then  an  inclination  to  laugh,  then  to  take 
offence  at  every  trifle.  And  now,  it  seemed,  he  was  in  this 
last  frame  of  mind.  He  said  nothing,  glanced  angrily  at 
me  and  his  father  ;  and  only  when  he  was  addressed  did  he 
smile,  with  the  submissive,  constrained  smile,  under  which 
he  was  already  accustomed  to  hide  his  feelings,  and  espe- 
cially the  feeling  of  shame  for  his  father,  which  he  could  not 
help  feeling  in  our  presence. 

"  So,  sir,  Nikolai  Petrovitch,"  said  the  old  man.  follow- 
ing me  about  the  room  while  I  dressed,  and  turning  the  silver 
snuff-box,  which  grandmamma  had  given  him,  sloAvly  and 
respectfully  between  his  fat  fingers  ;  "as  soon  as  I  learned 


YOUTn.  263 

from  iny  son  that  you  had  deigned  to  pass  an  excellent 
examination. — for  your  clcA'erness  is  known  to  all,  —  1  im- 
mediately hastened  hither  to  congratulate  you,  batiuschka  ; 
why,  I  have  carried  you  on  my  shoulder,  and  God  sees  that 
I  love  34)u  all  like  relatives  ;  and  my  Ilinka  is  always  beg- 
ging to  be  allowed  to  come  to  3'ou.  He,  too,  has  already 
become  accustomed  to  you." 

Meantime,  Ilinka  sat  in  silence,  by  the  window,  apparently 
gazing  at  ni}'  three-cornered  hat,  and  muttering  something 
angrily,  and  almost  inaudibly. 

''  Now,  I  wanted  to  ask  з'ои,  Nikolai  Petrovitch,"  contin- 
ued the  old  man,  "  did  my  Ilinka  pass  a  good  examination? 
He  said  he  should  be  with  you,  and  you  would  not  leave 
him  ;  you  would  look  after  him,  and  advise  him." 

"  AVhy,  he  passed  a  very  fine  one,"  I  replied,  glancing  at 
Ilinka,  who,  feeling  my  glance,  blushed,  and  stopped  moving 
his  lips. 

"  And  can  he  pass  the  day  with  you  ?  "  said  the  old  man, 
with  a  timid  smile,  as  though  he  were  very  much  afraid  of 
me,  and  always  standing  so  close  to  me,  whenever  I  halted, 
that  the  odor  of  wine  and  tobacco,  in  which  he  was  steeped, 
did  not  cease  for  a  single  second  to  be  perceptible  to  me.  I 
was  provoked  at  him  for  having  placed  me  in  such  a  false 
position  towards  his  son,  and  because  he  had  diverted  my 
attention  from  my  very  important  occupation  at  that  moment 
—  dressing  ;  but  most  of  all,  that  ever-present  odor  of  strong 
brandy  so  distracted  me,  that  I  said,  very  coldly,  that  I 
could  not  remain  with  Ilinka,  because  I  should  not  be  at 
home  all  day. 

"  You  wanted  to  go  to  your  sister,  batiuschka,"  said 
Ilinka,  smiling,  but  not  looking  at  me  ;  "  and  I  have  some- 
thing to  do  besides."  I  was  still  more  vexed  and  mortified, 
and,  in  order  to  smooth  over  my  refusal  I  hastened  to  im- 
part the  information,  that  I  should  not  be  at  home  because  I 
must  go  to  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch,  and  Princess  Kornakova, 
and  to  Ivin,  the  one  who  held  such  an  important  post,  and 
that  I  should  probably  dine  with  Princess  Nekhliudova.  It 
seemed  to  me  tliat  when  they  learned  to  what  distinguished 
houses  I  was  going,  they  could  make  no  more  claims  upon 
me.  When  they  prepared  to  dei)art,  I  invited  Ilmka  to  come 
again  ;  but  Ilinka  only  muttered  something,  and  smiled  with 
a  constrained  expression.  It  was  evident  that  his  feet  would 
never  cross  my  threshold  again. 


264  YOUTH. 

After  their  departure,  I  set  out  on  my  visits.  Volodya, 
whom  I  had  tliat  morning  invited  to  accompany  me,  in  order 
that  it  migiit  not  be  as  awkward  as  if  1  were  alone,  liad 
refused,  under  the  pretext  that  it  would  be  too  sentimental 
for  two  brothers  to  ride  together  in  one  carriage. 


YOUTH.  265 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE    VALAKHINS. 

So  I  set  out  alone.  My  first  visit,  in  point  of  locality, 
was  to  tlie  Valakhins,  in  the  SiA'tzavoi  Vrazhok.  I  had  not 
seen  Sonitclika  for  three  years,  and  of  course  my  love  for 
her  had  vanished  long  ago  ;  but  a  lively  and  touching  mem- 
ory of  that  past  childish  love  still  lingered  in  my  soul.  It 
had  happened  to  me,  in  the  course  of  those  three  years,  to 
recall  her  with  such  force  and  clearness,  that  I  shed  tears, 
and  felt  myself  in  love  again  ;  but  this  onlj'  lasted  a  few 
minutes,  and  did  not  speedily  return. 

I  knew  that  Sonitclika  had  been  abroad  with  her  mother, 
where  they  had  remained  for  two  j^ears,  and  where,  it  was 
said,  they  had  been  upset  in  a  diligence,  and  Sonitchka's 
face  had  been  badly  cut  with  the  glass,  so  that  she  had  lost 
her  good  looks  to  a  great  extent.  On  ni}-  way  thither,  I 
vividly  recalled  the  former  Sonitchka,  and  thought  of  hovf 
I  should  meet  her  now.  In  consequence  of  her  two  years' 
stay  abroad  I  fancied  her  extremely  tall,  with  a  verj-  fine 
figure,  serious  and  dignified,  but  remarkably  attractive.  My 
imagination  refused  to  present  her  with  a  face  disfigured 
with  scars  :  on  the  contrary,  having  heard  somewhere  of  the 
passionate  lover  who  remained  faitliful  to  the  beloved  object, 
m  spite  of  disfigurement  by  small-pox,  I  tried  to  think  that 
1  was  in  love  with  Sonitchka,  in  order  that  I  might  have  the 
merit  of  remaining  true  to  her  in  s[)ite  of  the  scars.  On  the 
whole,  when  I  drove  up  to  the  Valakhins'  house  I  was  not 
in  love,  but  having  set  in  motion  old  memories  of  love  I 
was  well  prepared  to  fall  ш  love,  and  was  very  desirous  to 
do  so  ;  the  more  so  as  I  had  long  felt  ashamed  when  I  looked 
at  all  my  enamoured  friends,  because  I  had  left  the  ranks. 

The  Valakhins  lived  in  a  neat  little  wooden  house,  the 
entrance  to  which  was  from  the  court-yard.  The  door  was 
opened  to  me  at  the  sound  of  the  bell,  which  was  then  a  great 


266  YOUTH. 

rarity  in  Moscow,  by  a  very  small  and  neatly  dressed  boy. 
He  eitlier  did  not  understand  me,  or  did  not  want  to  tell  me 
if  the  famil}'  were  at  home  ;  and  leaving  me  in  the  dark  ves- 
tibule, he  ran  into  the  still  darker  corridor. 

1  remained  alone  for  (juite  a  while  in  that  dark  room,  in 
which  there  was  one  closed  door,  besides  the  one  leadmg  to 
the  corridor ;  and  I  wondered  parti}'  at  the  gloomy  character 
of  the  house,  and  in  part  supposed  that  it  must  be  so  with 
people  who  had  been  abroad.  After  the  lapse  of  five  minutes 
the  door  to  the  hall  was  opened  from  the  inside  by  the  same 
boy,  and  he  led  me  to  the  neatly  but  not  richly  furnished 
drawing-room,  into  which  Sonitchka  followed  me. 

iShe  w'as  seventeen.  She  was  very  short  in  stature,  very 
thin,  and  with  a  yellowish,  unhealthy  color  in  her  face. 
There  were  no  scars  visible  on  her  face  ;  but  her  charming, 
prominent  eyes,  and  her  bright,  good-natured,  merry  smile 
were  the  same  which  I  had  known  and  loved  in  my  childhood. 
I  had  not  expected  to  find  her  like  this  at  all,  and  therefore 
I  could  not  at  once  pour  out  upon  her  the  feeling  which  I  hai^ 
])repared  on  the  way.  She  gave  me  her  hand  in  the  English 
fashion,  which  was  then  as  much  of  a  rarit}- as  the  bell,  shook 
my  hand  frankly,  and  seated  me  beside  her  on  the  sofa. 

"  Ah,  how  glad  T  am  to  see  you,  my  dear  Nicolas  !  "  she 
said,  gazing  mto  my  face  with  the  same  genuine  expression 
of  pleasure  which  her  words  implied.  The  "■  m}'  dear  Nico- 
las," I  observed,  was  uttered  in  a  friendly,  not  in  a  patron- 
izing, tone.  To  my  amazement,  she  was  more  simple,  sweet, 
and  natural  in  her  maimer  after  her  trip  abroad  than  before. 
I  observed  two  little  scars  near  her  nose,  and  on  her  fore- 
head ;  but  her  wonderful  eyes  and  smile  were  perfectl}'  true 
to  my  recollections,  and  shone  in  the  old  wa}'. 

'' How  you  have  changed!"  said  she:  "j^ou  have  quite 
grown  up.     Well,  and  I  —  what  do  you  think  of  me  ?  " 

"  Ah,  I  should  not  have  known  you,"  I  answered,  although 
at  that  very  time  I  was  thinking  that  I  should  have  known 
her  anywhere.  I  again  felt  1113  self  in  that  cai'e-free,  merry 
mood  in  which,  five  years  before,  1  had  danced  the  "grand- 
father" with  her  at  grandmamma's  ball. 

"What,  have  I  grown  very  ugly?"  she  asked,  shaking 
her  head. 

"  No,  not  at  all ;  you  have  grown  some,  you  are  older," 
I  made  haste  to  reply:  "but  on  the  contrary  —  and 
even  ' '  — 


YOUTH.  267 

"AYell,  no  matter:  I  reraembei'  our  dances,  our  games, 
St.  Jerome,  Mme.  Dorat."  (I  did  not  recollect  an}'  Mme. 
Dorat :  she  was  evideutl}'  carried  away  by  tlie  enjoj-meut  of 
her  childish  memories,  and  was  confounding;  them.)  ''Ah, 
that  was  a  famous  time  !  "  she  continued  ;  and  the  same  smile, 
even  more  beautiful  than  the  one  I  bore  in  my  memory,  and 
the  very  same  eyes,  gleamed  before  me.  While  she  was 
speaking  I  had  succeeded  in  realizing  the  situation  in  whicL 
I  found  myself  at  the  present  moment,  and  I  decided  that  at 
the  present  moment  1  was  in  love.  As  soon  as  I  had  made 
up  my  mind  to  this,  that  instant  my  happy,  careless  mood 
vanished,  a  dark  cloud  enveloped  every  thing  before  me,  — 
even  her  eyes  and  smile,  —  I  became  ashamed  of  something, 
I  turned  red,  and  lost  all  power  to  speak. 

"  Times  are  different  now,"  she  went  on  with  a  sigh,  ele- 
vating her  brows  slightly  :  "  every  thing  is  much  worse,  and 
we  are  worse  ;  are  we  not,  Nicolas?  " 

I  could  not  answer,  and  gazed  at  her  in  silence. 

"Where  are  all  the  Ivins  and  Kornakoffs  of  those  days? 
Do  you  remember?"  she  continued,  looking  at  my  red  and 
frightened  face  with  some  curiosity:  ''that  was  a  famous 
time  !  " 

And  still  I  could  not  repl^^ 

The  entrance  of  the  elder  Valakhina  relieved  me  of  this 
uncomfortable  situation  for  a  time.  I  rose,  bowed,  and  re- 
covered my  power  of  speech  ;  but  in  turn,  a  strange  change 
came  over  Sonitchka  with  her  mother's  entrance.  All  her 
gayety  and  naturalness  suddenly  disappeared,  her  very  smile 
A\*as  different ;  and  all  at  once,  with  the  exception  of  her  tall 
stature,  she  became  exactly  the  young  lady  returned  from 
aliroad  which  I  had  imagined  her  to  be.  It  seemed  as  though 
this  change  could  have  no  cause,  since  her  mother  smiled 
iust  as  pleasantly,  and  all  her  movements  expressed  as  much 
gentleness,  as  of  old.  The  Valakhina ^  seated  herself  in  a 
large  arm-chair,  and  indicated  to  me  a  place  near  her.  She 
said  something  to  her  daughter  in  English,  and  Sonitchka 
immediately  left  the  room,  which  afforded  me  some  relief. 
Tlie  Valakhina  inquired  after  my  relatives,  my  brother,  and 
my  father,  and  then  spoke  to  me  of  her  own  sorrow,  —  the 
loss  of  her  husband, — and  finally,  feeling  that  there  was 

'  л  ladj-'s  surname  is  not  infrequently  used  thus,  witliout  prefix.  The  feminine 
form  lias  been  used  throutchout,  in  preference  to  the  masculine  form  with  i\u'.  jirertx 
of  "  Madame"  (as  Mine.  Valakhin,  Koruakoff,  etc.),  for  the  sake  of  illustnitini;  thie 
point.  — Tb. 


268  YOUTH. 

nothing  to  say  to  me,  she  looked  fit  me  in  silence,  as  if  to 
say,  "  If  you  will  rise  now,  and  make  your  bow,  and  go 
away,  you  will  be  doing  very  well,  my  dear  fellow."  But  a 
strange  thing  happened  to  me.  Souitchka  had  returned 
with  her  work,  and  seated  herself  in  the  corner  of  the  room, 
so  that  I  felt  her  glance  fixed  upon  me.  While  the  Vala- 
khina  was  relating  the  loss  of  her  husband,  I  once  more  re- 
membered that  I  was  in  1ол-е,  and  thought  that  perhaps  the 
mother  guessed  it ;  and  I  had  another  lit  of  shyness  of  such 
power  that  1  did  not  find  m^-self  in  a  condition  to  move  even  a 
single  limb  in  a  natural  manner.  1  knew  that  in  order  to  rise 
and  take  my  departure,  I  should  be  obliged  to  think  where  to 
set  my  foot,  what  to  do  with  my  head,  what  with  my  hand : 
in  one  word,  I  felt  almost  exactly  as  I  had  felt  the  evening 
before  after  drinking  half  a  bottle  of  champagne.  I  had  a 
presentiment  that  I  could  not  get  through  with  all  this,  and 
thei'efore  could  not  rise  ;  and  I  actually  could  not.  The  Val- 
akhina  was  probably  surprised  when  she  beheld  my  face,  as 
red  as  cloth,  and  my  utter  immovability  ;  but  I  decided  that 
it  was  better  to  sit  still  in  that  stupid  attitude  than  to  risk 
rising  Ш  an  awkward  manner,  and  taking  my  departure.  I 
sat  thus  for  quite  a  long  time,  expecting  that  some  unfore- 
seen circumstance  w^uld  rescue  me  from  that  position.  This 
circumstance  presented  itself  in  the  person  of  an  insignifi- 
cant young  man,  who  entered  the  room  with  the  air  of  a 
member  of  the  famil}',  and  bowed  courteously  to  me.  The 
Valakhina  rose,  excusing  herself  on  the  ground  that  it  was 
necessary  for  her  to  speak  with  her  business  manager,  and 
looked  at  me  with  an  expression  of  surprise  which  said,  "If 
you  want  to  sit  there  forever,  I  will  not  drive  you  out."  I 
made  a  tremendous  effort,  and  rose,  but  was  no  longer  in  a 
condition  to  make  a  bow  ;  and  as  I  went  out,  accompanied  by 
the  compassionate  glances  of  mother  and  daughter,  1  knocked 
against  a  chair  which  did  not  stand  in  ni}'  л\ау  at  all ;  I  only 
ran  against  it  because  my  whole  attention  was  directed  upon 
not  stumbling  over  the  carpet  which  was  under  my  feet. 
But  once  in  the  open  air,  — where  I  writhed  and  growled  so 
loudly  that  even  Kuzma  Inquired  several  times,  ''  What  is 
your  wish?"  —  this  feeling  disappeared;  and  I  began  to 
meditate  quite  calmly  upon  my  love  for  Sonitchka,  and  her 
relation  with  her  mother,  which  struck  me  as  singular. 
AVhen  I  afterward  communicated  my  observations  to  my 
father,  —  that  INIme.  Л^а1акЬ1па  and  her  daughter  were  not  on 
good  teims,  —  he  said  : 


Yourn.  2G9 

"Yes,  she  torments  her,  poor  thing,  with  her  strange 
miserliness  ;  and  it's  odd  enough,"  he  added,  with  a  stronger 
feeling  than  he  could  have  for  a  mere  relative,  "-How  charm- 
ing she  was,  the  dear,  queer  woman  !  I  cannot  understand 
wh}'  she  is  so  changed.  You  did  not  see  any  secretai-y 
there,  did  you  ?  AVhat  sort  of  a  fashion  is  it  for  Russian 
ladies  to  have  secretaries?"  he  said  angrily,  walking  away 
from  me. 

'•  I  did  see  him,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  he  is  good-looking  at  least?  " 

"  No,  he  is  not  at  all  good-looking." 

"It's  incomprehensible,"  said  papa,  and  he  twitched  his 
shoulders  angril}'  and  coughed. 

"  Here  I  am  in  love,  too,"  I  thought  as  I  rode  on  in  my 
drozhky. 


270  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

THE    KORNAKOFS. 

The  second  call  on  my  way  was  on  the  Kornakoffs.  They 
lived  on  the  first  floor  of  a  great  house  on  tlie  Arbuta.  The 
staircase  was  very  showy  and  clean,  but  not  luxurious. 
P>erywhere  there  was  striped  crash  fastened  directly  on  the 
stairs  b}'  rails  of  polished  copper  ;  but  there  were  neither 
flowers  nor  mirrors.  The  hall,  over  Avhose  brightly  polished 
floor  I  passed  to  reach  the  drawing-room,  was  also  forbidding, 
cold,  and  neatly  arranged  ;  every  thing  shone,  and  seemed 
durable,  altiiough  not  at  all  new  ;  but  neither  pictures,  cur- 
tains, nor  any  other  species  of  adornment  were  au^'where 
visible.  Several  Princesses  were  in  the  drawing-room.  They 
were  sitting  in  such  a  precise  and  leisurely  attitude  that  it 
was  immediately  perceptible  that  they  did  not  sit  so  when 
guests  were  not  present. 

'•Mamma  will  be  here  immediately,"  said  the  eldest  of 
them  to  me,  as  she  seated  herself  uearer  me.  For  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  this  Princess  engaged  me  in  a  л'егу  easy  сопл'ег- 
sation,  and  she  did  it  so  skilfully  that  the  conversation  never, 
languished  for  a  moment.  But  it  was  too  evident  that  shei 
was  enteilaining  me,  and  therefore  she  did  not  please  me. 
Among  other  things,  she  told  me  that  her  brother  Stepan, 
whom  they  called  Etievne,  and  who  had  1)een  sent  to  tlie 
Junkers'  School,  had  already  been  promoted  to  be  an  oMiccr. 
When  she  sjioke  of  her  brother,  and  especially  when  she 
mentioned  that  he  had  entered  the  hussars  against  his  moth- 
er's wish,  she  put  on  a  frightened  look  ;  and  all  the  Prin- 
cesses, who  sat  there  in  silence,  put  en  the  same  frightened 
faces.  ЛУЬеп  she  spoke  of  grandmamma's  death,  she  })at 
on  a  sorrowful  look,  and  all  the  younger  Princesses  did  the 
same.  When  she  recalled  how  1  had  struck  St.  Jerome,  and 
how  I  had  been  led  off,  she  laughed,  and  showed  her  bad 
teeth ;  and  all  the  Princesses  laughed,  aud  showed  their 
bad  teeth. 


YOUTH.  271 

The  Princess  entered.  She  was  te  same  little  diied-up 
woman,  with  restless  eyes,  and  a  habit  of  looking  at  other 
people  while  talking  with  one.  She  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and  raised  her  hand  to  my  lips,  in  order  that  I  might  kiss  it ; 
which  I  should  not  otherwise  have  done,  not  supposing  that 
it  was  indispensable. 

'^  How  glad  I  am  to  see  you!"  she  said,  with  her  usual 
eloquence,  glancing  at  her  daughters.  ''Ah,  how  like  his 
mamma  he  is!     Is  he  not,  Lise?" 

Lise  said  that  it  was  so  ;  though  I  know,  for  a  fact,  that  I 
possessed  not  the  slightest  resemblance  to  mamma. 

"  And  how  large  you  have  grown  !  And  my  Etienne,  you 
remember,  he  is  your  second  cousin  —  no,  not  your  second  ; 
but  how  is  it,  Lise  ?  My  mother  was  Varvara  Dmitrievna, 
daughter  of  Dmitri  Nikolaevitch,  and  your  grandmother  was 
Natalya  Nikolaevitch." 

"Then  he  is  our  third  cousin,  mamma,"  said  the  eldest 
Princess. 

"Oh,  3'ou  are  mixing  things  all  up,"  cried  the  Princess 
angrily.  "  It's  not  third  cousin  at  all,  but  issus  de  germdhis, 
—  children  of  cousins  ;  that's  what  you  and  my  dear  little 
Etienne  are.  He's  an  officer  already:  did  you  know  it? 
But  it's  not  well  in  one  respect :  he  has  too  much  lil)erty. 
You  young  people  must  be  kept  in  hand ;  that's  how  it 
is  !  You  will  not  be  angry  with  me,  your  old  aunt,  if  I  tell 
you  the  truth?  I  brought  up  Etienne  stiictly,  and  I  think 
that's  the  proper  way  to  do. 

"Yes,  that's  the  relationship  between  us,"  she  went  on. 
"Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  was  my  own  uncle,  and  your  mother's 
uncle.  So  we  were  cousins  to  your  mamma,  and  not  second 
cousins.  Yes,  that's  it.  Now,  tell  me.  Have  you  been 
to  Piince   Ivan's?  " 

I  said  that  I  had  not  been  there  yet,  but  should  go  that 
day. 

'•Ah!  how  is  that  possible?"  she  exclaimed.  "That 
should  have  been  your  very  (irst  call.  Why,  you  know  that 
Prince  Ivan  is  just  the  same  as  a  father  to  you.  He  has  no 
children,  so  his  only  heirs  are  you  and  my  children.  You 
must  revere  him  on  account  of  liis  age,  and  his  position  in 
the  world,  and  every  thing.  I  know  that  you  young  pe()i)le 
of  the  present  generation  think  nothing  of  relationshij),  and 
do  not  like  old  peo[)le  ;  l)ut  yon  must  obey  me,  ycnir  old 
aunt;   for  1  love  you,  and  I  loved  your  mamma,  and  your 


272  YOUTH. 

granclmotlicr,  too,  T  loved  and  respected  very,  л'егу  much. 
Yes.  you  must  go  without  fail.      You  certainly  must  go." 

I  said  that  I  certaiiily  would  go,  and  as  tlie  call  had  already 
lasted  long  enough,  in  my  opinion,  1  rose,  and  made  a  mo- 
tion to  go  ;  but  she  detained  me. 

"  No,  wait  a  minute.  — Where  is  j^our  father,  Lise?  Call 
him  here.  —  He  will  be  so  glad  to  see  you,"  she  continued, 
turning  to  me. 

In  a  couple  of  minutes  Prince  Mikhailo  actually  entered. 
He  was  a  short,  stout  man,  very  negligently  dressed,  un- 
shaven, and  with  such  an  expression  of  indifference  on  his 
countenance  that  it  approached  stupidity.  He  was  not  at  all 
glad  to  see  me  ;  at  all  events,  he  did  not  express  any  thing 
of  the  sort.  But  the  Princess,  of  whom  he  was  evidently 
very  much  afraid,  said  to  him,  — 

"  Waldemar  [she  had  plainly  forgotten  my  name]  is 
very  like  his  mother,  is  he  not?  "  and  she  made  such  a  sig- 
nal with  her  eyes  that  the  Prince  must  have  divined  her  wish, 
for  he  came  up  to  me,  and,  with  the  most  apathetic  and  even 
dissatisfied  expression  of  countenance,  presented  his  unshaven 
cheek  to  me,  which  I  was  forced  to  kiss. 

"  But  you  are  not  dressed,  and  you  must  go  instantly,"  the 
Princess  began  at  once  to  say  to  him,  in  an  angr}'  tone, 
which  was  evidently  her  usual  one  with  members  of  her 
household.  "You  want  to  prejudice  people  against  3'ou 
again,  to  make  people  angry  with  3'ou  again  !  " 

"At  once,  at  once,  matiuschka,"  said  Prince  Mikhailo, 
and  departed.     I  bowed,  and  departed  also. 

I  had  heard  for  the  first  time  that  we  were  heirs  of  Prince 
Ivan  Ivanitch,  and  this  news  struck  me  unpleasantly. 


YOUTH.  273 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE    IVINS. 

It  distressed  me  still  more  to  think  of  that  impending, 
indispensable  visit.  But  before  I  went  to  the  Prince.  1  had 
to  stop  at  the  Ivins'  on  the  way.  They  lived  on  the  Tversky 
Boulevard,  in  a  large  and  handsome  house.  It  was  not  with- 
out timidity  that  I  drove  up  to  the  state  entrance,  at  which 
stood  a  porter  with  a  cane. 

I  asked  him  if  the  family  was  at  home. 

"Whom  do  you  wish  to  see?  The  general's  sou  is  at 
home,"  said  the  porter. 

"  And  the  general  himself?  " 

"  I  \vill  iiKiuire.  Whom  shall  I  announce?"  said  the  por- 
ter, and  rang. 

A  footman's  feet,  clad  in  gaiters,  appeared  upon  the 
stairs.  I  was  so  much  alarmed,  I  do  not  know  myself 
that  I  told  the  footman  that  he  was  not  to  announce  me  to 
the  general,  and  that  I  would  go  first  to  the  general's  son. 
ЛУЬеп  I  went  upstairs,  along  that  great  staircase,  it  seemed 
to  me  that  I  became  frighfully  small  (and  not  in  the  fig- 
urative, but  in  the  actual,  sense  of  the  word).  I  had  expe- 
rienced the  same  sensation  when  m}'  drozhky  drove  up  to  tlie 
grand  entrance  ;  it  had  seemed  to  me  that  the  drozlik}-  and 
the  horse  and  the  coachman  became  small.  The  general's 
son  was  lying,  fast  asleep,  upon  a  sofa,  with  an  open  book 
before  him,  when  I  entered  the  room.  His  tutor,  Ilerr  Frost, 
who  still  remained  in  the  house,  followed  mc  into  tlie  room, 
with  his  active  step,  and  woke  ui)  his  pupil.  Ivin  did  not 
exhibit  an}'  especial  delight  at  the  sight  of  me,  and  I  observed 
that  he  looked  at  my  eyebrows  while  he  was  talking.  Al- 
though he  was  very  polite,  it  seemed  to  me  tiiat  he  was  enter- 
taining me  exactly  as  the  Princess  had  done,  and  th.-it  he  felt 
no  i)arti('ular  attraction  towards  me,  and  did  not  need  my  ac- 
quaintance, since  he  probably  had  his  (jwu  different  circle  of 


274  YOUTH. 

acquaintances.  ЛИ  this  I  imagined,  principally  because  he 
gazed  at  my  eyebrows.  In  a  word,  his  relations  to  me, 
however  disagreeable  it  might  be  to  me  to  confess  it,  were 
almost  exactly  the  same  as  mine  to  Ilinka.  I  began  to  get 
irritated ;  I  caught  every  look  of  Ivin's  on  the  fly,  and 
when  his  eyes  and  Frost's  met,  I  translated  his  question  : 
"  And  why  has  ho  come  to  us?  " 

After  talking  with  me  for  a  short  time,  Iviu  said  that  his 
father  and  mother  were  at  home,  and  would  1  not  like  to 
have  him  go  with  me  to  them  ? 

''I  will  dress  myself  at  once,"  he  added,  going  into 
another  room,  although  he  was  very  well  dressed  in  this 
room,  —  in  a  new  coat  and  a  white  waist(*oat.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  came  back  in  his  uniform,  completely  l)uttoned 
up,  and  we  went  down-stairs  together.  The  state  apartments 
which  we  passed  through  were  extremely  lofty,  and  appar- 
ently very  richly  furnished  ;  there  was  marble  and  gilding, 
and  something  wrapped  up  in  muslin,  and  mirrors.  The 
Ivina  entered  the  small  room  behind  the  drawing-room 
through  another  door,  at  the  same  time  that  we  did.  8he 
received  me  in  a  very  friendly  manner,  like  a  relative,  gave 
me  a  seat  beside  her,  and  inquired  with  interest  about  all 
our  family. 

Mme.  Ivina,  of  whom  I  had  only  caught  a  couple  of  fleet- 
ing glimpses  previous  to  tiiis,  pleased  me  very  much  now 
that  1  looked  at  her  attentively.  She  was  tall,  thin,  very 
white,  and  seemed  always  melancholy  and  exhausted.  Her 
smile  Avas  sad,  but  exti-emely  kind  ;  her  eyes  were  large, 
weary,  and  not  quite  straight,  which  gave  her  a  still  more 
melancholy  and  attractive  expression.  She  did  not  sit  ex- 
actly bent  over,  but  with  her  Avhole  body  limp,  and  all  her 
movements  were  languishing.  She  spoke  languidly,  but  the 
sound  of  her  voice,  and  her  indistinct  utterance  of  r  and  ^, 
were  very  pleasing.  She  did  not  entertain  me.  My  answers 
about  my  relatives  evidentl}'  afforded  her  a  melancholyinter- 
est,  as  though,  while  listening  to  me,  she  sadl}^  recalled 
better  days.  Her  sou  went  off  somewhere  ;  she  gazed  at 
me  in  silence  for  a  couple  of  minutes,  and  all  at  once  she 
began  to  cr}'.  I  sat  there  before  her,  and  could  not  think  of 
an}'  thing  whatever  to  say  or  do.  She  went  on  crying,  and 
never  looked  at  me.  At  first  I  was  sorry  for  her ;  then  I 
thought,  ''  Ought  I  not  to  comfort  her,  and  how  must  it  be 
done?"  and  llnally  I  became  vexed  at  her,  for  placing  me 


YOUTU.  21 Ь 

in  such  an  awkward  position.  "Have  I  such  a  pitiful  ap- 
pearance? "  I  thought,  "  or  is  she  doing  this  on  purpose  to 
iind  out  how  I  will  behave  under  the  circumstances?  " 

'•'•  It  is  aAvkward  to  take  leave  now,  it  will  seem  as  though 
I  am  running  away  from  her  tears,"  I  continued  my  reflec- 
tions. I  moved  about  on  my  chair  to  remind  her  of  my 
presence. 

'"Oh,  how  stupid  I  am!  "  she  said,  glancing  at  ше,  and 
trying  to  smile;  "there  are  da3's  when  one  weeps  without 
any  cause  whatever." 

She  began  to  search  for  her  handkerchief,  beside  her  on 
the  sofa,  and  all  at  once  she  broke  out  crying  harder  than 
ever. 

"  Ah,  my  heavens  !  how  ridiculous  it  is  for  me  to  cry  so! 
I  loved  your  mother  so,  we  were  such  —  friends  —  and  "  — 

She  found  her  handkerchief,  covered  her  face  with  it,  and 
went  on  crying.  My  awkward  position  was  renewed,  and 
lasted  for  quite  a  long  while.  Her  tears  seemed  genuine,  and  I 
kept  thinking  that  she  was  not  weeping  so  much  because 
of  my  mother,  as  because  things  did  not  suit  her  now,  but 
had  been  much  better  at  some  time  in  former  days.  I  do 
not  know  how  it  would  have  ended,  had  not  young  Ivin  en- 
tered and  said  that  old  Ivin  was  asking  for  her.  She  rose, 
and  was  on  the  point  of  going,  when  Ivin  himself  entered  the 
room.  He  was  a  small,  stout,  gray-haired  gentleman,  with 
thick  black  brows,  perfectly  gray  close-cut  hair,  and  an  ex- 
tremely stern  and  firm  expression  of  countenance. 

I  rose  and  saluted  him  ;  but  Ivin,  who  had  three  stars  on 
his  green  coat,  not  only  did  not  respond  to  my  greeting,  but 
hardly  so  much  as  glanced  at  me,  so  that  I  all  at  once  felt 
that  1  was  not  a  man,  but  some  sort  of  thing  which  was  not 
worth}'  of  notice,  —  an  armchair  or  a  window,  or,  if  a  man, 
then  such  a  one  as  is  not  distinguished  in  any  way  from  an 
armchair  or  a  window. 

"You  haven't  written  to  the  Countess  yet,  my  dear,"  he 
said  to  his  wife  in  French,  with  an  apathetic  but  firm  expres- 
sion of  countenance. 

"  Farewell,  Mr.  Irteneff,"  said  Mme.  Ivina  to  me,  inclining 
her  head  rather  haughtily  all  at  once,  and  gazing  at  my  eye- 
brows as  her  son  had  done.  I  bowed  once  more  to  her  and 
her  husband,  and  again  my  salute  acted  upon  the  elder  Ivin 
exactly  as  the  opening  or  shutting  of  a  window  would  have 
done.     But  Ivin  the  student  accompanied  me  to  the  door, 


276  YOUTH. 

and  told  me  on  the  way  that  he  was  going  to  be  transferred 
to  the  Petersburg  university,  because  his  fatlier  had  received 
an  appointment  there  (and  he  meutioued  a  ver^'  important 
position). 

''Well,  as  papa  likes,"  I  muttered  to  myself  as  I  seated 
myself  in  my  drozhky  :  "  but  my  feet  will  never  enter  here 
again.  That  bawler  cries  when  she  looks  at  me,  just  as  thougli 
1  were  some  miserable  creature  ;  and  Ivin  is  a  pig,  and  doesn't 
bow  to  me.  I'll  give  him"  —  what  1  wanted  to  give  him, 
1  really  do  not  know,  but  that  was  the  word  which  occurred 
to  me. 

1  was  often  obliged  afterwards  to  endure  my  father's  exhor- 
tations, and  he  said  that  it  was  indispensable  to  ^^ cultivate" 
this  acquaintance,  and  that  I  could  not  require  a  man  in  such 
a  position  as  Ivin's  to  pay  attention  to  such  a  boj'  as  I ;  but 
I  preserved  шу  resolution  for  a  long  time. 


YOUTH.  Til 


CHAPTER   ХХГ. 

PUINCE    IVAN    IVANITCII. 

"  Nenv  for  the  last  call  on  the  Nikitskaya,"  I  ssaid  to  Kuz- 
ma,  and  we  rolled  away  to  Prince  Ivau  Ivanitch's  house. 

After  having  gone  through  several  calling  experiences,  I 
had  acquired  self-reliance  by  practice  ;  and  now  1  was  about 
to  drive  up  to  the  Prince's  in  a  tolerably  composed  frame  of 
niind.  when  I  suddenly  recalled  the  words  of  Princess  Korna- 
kova,  to  the  effect  that  I  was  his  heir ;  moreover,  I  beheld 
two  equipages  at  the  entrance,  and  1  felt  n\y  former  timidity 
again. 

It  seemed  to  me  that  the  old  porter  who  opened  the  door 
for  me,  and  the  footman  луЬо  took  otf  my  coat,  and  the  three 
ladies  and  the  two  gentlemen  whom  I  found  in  the  drawing- 
rcjom,  and  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  himself  in  particular,  who  was 
sitting  on  the  sofa  in  a  plain  coat,  —  it  seemed  to  me  that 
they  all  looked  ui)on  me  as  the  heir,  and  therefore  with  ill- 
will.  The  Prince  was  very  friendly  with  me  :  he  kissed  me, 
that  is  to  say,  he  laid  his  soft,  dry,  cold  lips  against  my  cheek 
for  a  moment,  inquired  about  my  occupations  and  plans, 
jested  witii  me,  asked  if  I  still  wrote  verses  like  those  whicli 
1  had  written  for  my  grandmother's  name-day,  and  said  that 
I  must  conje  and  dine  Avith  him  that  day.  But  the  moi-e 
couiteous  he  was,  the  more  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  he 
Avanted  to  |)et  me  only  to  prevent  my  perceiving  how  disa- 
grecabli"  was  to  him  the  thought  that  I  was  his  heir.  He  had 
a  liabit  —  arising  from  the  false  teeth  with  which  his  mouth 
луа8  llUed  —  of  raising  his  upper  lip  towards  his  nose  after 
he  had  said  any  thing,  and  uttering  a  slight  snort,  as  though 
he  were  drawing  his  Iq)  into  his  nostrils  ;  aad  when  he  did 
this  on  the  present  occasion,  it  seemed  to  me  as  though  he 
were  saying  to  himself,  "  Little  boy,  little  boy,  I  know  it 
without  your  reminding  me  of  it :  you  are  the  heir,  the  heir," 
and  so  on. 


278  YOUTH. 

When  we  were  children,  we  had  called  Prince  Ivan  Тл'апНсЬ 
"  uncle  :  "  but  now,  in  ni}^  capacity  of  heir,  my  tongue  could 
not  bring  itself  to  say  '' uncle"  to  him,  and  it  seemed  to 
me  humiliating  to  call  him  "  your  excellency,"  as  one  of  the 
gentlemen  present  did  ;  so  that,  during  the  entire  conversa- 
tion, I  tried  not  to  call  him  any  thing  at  all.  But  what 
abashed  me  most  of  all  was  the  old  Princess,  who  was  also 
one  of  the  Prince's  heirs,  and  lived  in  his  house.  During 
the  whole  course  of  dinner,  at  which  I  was  seated  beside 
the  Princess,  I  fancied  that  the  Princess  did  not  address  me 
because  she  hated  me  for  being  also  an  heir  of  the  Prince  as 
well  as  herself  ;  and  that  the  Prince  paid  no  attention  to  our 
side  of  the  table  because  we  —  the  Princess  and  I  —  were 
heirs,  and  equally  repulsive  to  him. 

"  Yes  ;  you  can't  believe  how  disagreeable  it  was  for  me," 
I  said  that  same  evening  to  Dmitri,  desiring  to  brag  to  him 
of  the  feeling  of  repugnance  to  the  thought  that  I  was  au 
heir  (this  sentiment  seemed  very  fine  to  me),  —  "how  dis- 
agreeable it  was  for  me  to  pass  two  whole  hours  at  the 
Prince's  to-day.  lie  is  a  very  line  man,  and  was  very  polite 
to  me,"  said  I,  wishing,  among  other  things,  to  impress  my 
friend  with  the  fact  that  wliat  I  said  was  not  in  consequence 
of  having  felt  humiliated  before  the  Prince;  ''but,"  1  con- 
tinued, '•  the  thought  that  tliey  might  look  upon  me  as  they 
do  upon  the  Princess  who  lives  in  his  house,  and  behaves  in 
such  a  servile  way  before  him,  is  frightful.  lie  is  a  won- 
derful old  man,  and  extremely  kind  and  delicate  withal,  but 
it  is  painful  to  see  how  he  maltreats  that  Princess.  This 
disgusting  money  ruins  all  intercourse  ! 

"Do  you  know,  I  think  it  would  be  much  better  to  explain 
myself  clearly  to  the  Prince,"  said  I,  —  "to  tell  him  that  I 
revere  him  as  a  man,  but  that  I  am  not  thinking  of  his 
inheritance,  and  that  I  beg  him  not  to  leave  me  any  thing, 
and  that  under  that  condition  only  will  I  go  to  his  house." 

Dmitri  did  not  laugh  when  I  told  him  this  :  on  the  con- 
trary, he  became  thoughtful,  and,  after  a  silence  of  several 
minutes,  he  said  to  me,  — 

"  Do  you  know  what?  You  are  not  in  the  right.  Either 
you  should  not  suppose  at  all  that  people  can  think  of  you 
as  of  34:)ur  Princess  :  or  else,  if  3'ou  do  already  supjtose  it, 
then  you  should  carry  з'оиг  suppositions  farther ;  that  is,  to 
the  effect  that  you  know  what  people  may  think  of  you,  but 
that  such  thoughts  are  so  far  from  your  intentions  that  you 


YOUTH.  279 

scorn  them,  and  will  do  nothing  which  is  founded  on  the  in. 
Now,  suppose  tluxt  they  suppose  that  you  suppose  this  — 
I)Ut,  in  short,"  he  added,  conscious  that  he  Avas  inл-oiving 
himself  in  his  reflections,  "  it's  much  better  noL  to  suppose 
it  at  all." 

M}-  friend  was  quite  right.  It  was  only  later,  much  later, 
that  I  was  convinced  from  my  experience  of  life  how  inju- 
rious it  is  to  think,  and  how  much  more  injurious  to  utter, 
much  which  seems  very  noble,  but  which  should  remain  for- 
ever hidden  from  all  in  the  heart  of  each  individual  man  ; 
and  how  rarely  noble  words  accompan}'  noble  deeds.  I  am 
convinced  that  the  very  fact  that  a  good  intention  has  been 
announced  renders  the  execution  of  this  good  intention  more 
difficult,  and  generally  mipossible.  But  how  restrain  the 
utterance  of  the  nobly  self-satisfied  impulses  of  3'outh? 
One  only  recollects  them  afterwards,  and  mourns  over  them 
as  over  a  flower  which  did  not  last,  —  which  .one  has  plucked 
ere  it  had  opened,  and  then  has  beheld  ujjou  the  ground, 
withered  and  trampled  on. 

I,  who  had  but  just  told  my  friend  Dmitri  that  money 
ruined  intercourse,  borrowed  twenty-five  rubles  of  him,  which 
he  offered  me  the  next  morning,  before  our  departure  to  the 
country,  when  I  found  that  I  had  wasted  all  my  own  money 
on  divers  pictures  and  pipe-stems  ;  and  then  I  remained  in 
his  debt  a  very  long  time  indeed. 


280  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

AN    INTIMATE    CONVERSATION    ЛУ1ТН    MY    FRIEND. 

Our  present  conversation  arose  in  the  phaeton  on  the  road 
to  Kuntzovo.  Dmitri  had  dissuaded  nie  from  calling  on  his 
mother  in  the  morning ;  but  he  came  to  me,  after  diimer,  to 
carry  me  off  for  the  whole  afternoon,  and  even  to  pass  the 
night  at  the  country-house  where  his  family  lived.  It  was 
only  when  we  had  emerged  from  the  city  and  the  dirty,  mot- 
ley streets,  and  the  intolerably  deafening  sound  of  the  pave- 
ments had  been  exchanged  for  the  broad  view  of  the  fields 
and  the  soft  rattle  of  the  wheels  along  the  dustj^  road,  and 
the  fragrant  spring  air  and  the  sense  of  space  had  seized 
bold  upon  me  from  all  sides,  —  it  was  onh'  then  that  I  гесол''- 
ered  my  senses  in  some  degree  from  the  various  new  impres- 
sions and  consciousness  of  freedom  which  had  quite  confused 
me  for  the  last  two  days.  Dmitri  was  gentle  and  sympa- 
thetic, did  not  adjust  his  neckerchief  with  his  head,  and  did 
not  screw  his  e3'es  up.  I  was  satisfied  лvith  the  lofty  senti- 
ments which  I  had  communicated  to  him,  supposing  that,  in 
consideration  of  them,  he  had  quite  forgiven  my  shameful 
affair  with  Kolpikoff,  and  would  not  despise  me  for  it ;  and 
we  conversed,  in  a  friendl}^  way,  of  many  intimate  things 
which  friends  do  not  talk  to  each  other  about  under  all  con- 
ditions. Dmitri  told  me  about  his  family,  whom  I  did  not 
know  as  j^et,  —  about  his  mother,  his  aunt,  his  sister,  and 
about  the  person  whom  Volodya  and  Dubkof  considered  my 
friend's  passion,  and  called  the  little  red-liead.  He  spoke  of 
his  mother  with  a  certain  cool,  triumphant  praise,  as  though 
to  forestall  any  objection  on  that  subject ;  he  expressed  en- 
thusiasm with  regard  to  his  aunt,  but  with  some  condescen- 
sion ;  of  his  sister,  he  said  very  little,  and  seemed  ashamed 
to  talk  to  me  about  her ;  but  as  for  the  little  red-head,  whose 
name  was  really  Liubov^  Sergieevna,  and  who  was  an  elderly 
maiden  lady,  who  lived  in  the  Nekhliudoffs'  house  in  some 

'  Love  •  not  au  uucommou  femitiiue  ChiisUau  name. 


тоитп.  281 

family  relation  or  other,  he  spoke  to  me  of  her  with  aui- 
mation. 

"■  Yes,  she  is  a  wonderful  girl,"  said  he,  blushing  modest- 
1}',  but,  at  the  same  time,  looking  me  boldly  iu  the  eye. 
'*  She  is  no  longer  a  young  girl :  she  is  even  rather  old,  and 
not  at  all  pretty  ;  but  how  stupid,  how  senseless  it  is  to  love 
beauty  !  I  cannot  understand  it,  it  is  so  stupid  [he  spoke 
as  if  he  had  but  just  discovered  a  perfectly  new  and  remark- 
al»le  truth],  but  she  has  such  a  soul,  such  a  heart,  such  piin- 
ciijles,  I  am  convinced  that  you  will  not  find  anotlier  such 
girl  in  this  present  world."  (I  do  not  know  why  Dmitri  had 
acpiired  the  hal)it  of  saying  that  every  thing  good  was  rare 
in  this  present  world  ;  he  was  fond  of  repeating  this  expres- 
sion, and  it  seemed  to  become  him.) 

*'I  am  only  afraid,"  he  continued  calmly,  after  having 
already  annihilated  with  his  condemnation  people  who  had 
tlie  stupidity  to  love  beauty,  "  I  am  afraid  that  you  will 
iKjt  soon  comprehend  her.  and  learn  to  know  her.  She  is 
modest,  even  reserved  ;  she  is  not  fond  of  displaying  her 
fine,  her  wonderful  qualities.  There  is  mamma,  who,  as  you 
Avill  see,  is  a  very  handsome  and  intelligent  луотап  ;  she  has 
known  Liubov  Sergiec^vna  for  several  years,  and  can  not  and 
will  not  understand  her.  Even  last  night  I  —  I  will  tell  you 
wh}'  I  was  out  of  spirits  when  you  asked  me.  Day  before 
yesterday,  ЫиЬол'  Sergieevna  wanted  me  to  go  with  her  to 
Ivan  Yakovlevitch  —  you  have  certainh-  heard  of  Ivan  Ya- 
kovlevitch,  who  is  said  to  be  crazy,  but,  in  realit}-,  is  a  re- 
markable man.  Liubov  Sergieevna  is  ver^^  religious,  I  must 
tell  you.  and  understands  Ivan  Yakovlevitch  perfectly.  She 
frequently  goes  to  see  him,  talks  w-ith  him,  and  giл'es  liim 
money  for  his  poor  people,  Avhich  she  has  earned  herself. 
She  is  a  wonderful  woman,  as  you  wall  see.  AVell.  so  I  went 
with  her  to  Ivan  Yakovlevitch,  and  was  very  grateful  to  her 
for  having  seen  that  remarkalile  man.  But  mamma  never 
will  understand  this,  and  regards  it  as  superstition.  Last 
night  I  had  a  quarrel  with  my  mother,  for  the  first  time  in  my 
life,  aid  a  rather  hot  one,"  he  concluded,  with  a  convul:^ive 
n.oveme-)it  of  the  neck,  as  though  in  memoi-y  of  the  feeling 
which  he  had  experienced  during  this  quarrel. 

''  Well,  and  what  do  3'ou  think  ?  That  is,  how  do  you  fancy 
it  will  turn  out?  or  do  л'оп  talk  with  her  of  how  it  is  to  be, 
and  how  3'our  love  and  friendship  will  end?  "  I  inquired, 
wishing  to  divert  him  from  unpleasant  memories. 


282  тоитп. 

"  You  mean  to  ask,  whether  I  thhik  of  marrying  her?  "  he 
inquired,  reddening  again,  but  turning  and  looking  me  ])old- 
ly  in  the  face. 

"Well,  in  fact,"  I  thought,  tranquillizing  myself,  "it's 
nothing :  we  are  grown  up  ;  we  two  friends  are  riding  in  this 
phaeton,  and  discussing  our  future  life.  Any  one  would 
enjoy  listening  and  looking  at  us  now,  unseen." 

"  Why  not?  "  he  went  on,  after  my  answer  in  the  affirma- 
tive. "It  is  my  aim,  as  it  is  the  aim  of  ever}-  right-minded 
man,  to  be  happy  and  good,  so  far  as  that  is  possible;  and 
with  her,  if  she  will  only  have  it  so,  I  shall  be  happier  and 
better  than  with  the  greatest  beauty  in  the  world,  as  soon  as 
I  am  entirely  independent." 

t^ngaged  in  such  discourse,  we  did  not  observe  that  we  had 
arrived  at  Kuntzovo,  that  the  sky  had  clouded  over,  and  that 
it  was  preparing  to  rain.  The  sun  stood  not  \evy  high  on 
the  right,  above  the  ancient  trees  of  the  Kuntzovo  garden, 
and  half  of  its  brilliant  red  disk  was  covered  with  gra}', 
slightly  luminous  clouds;  liroken,  fiery  rays  escaped  in  bursts 
fioni  the  other  half,  and  lighted  up  the  old  trees  of  the  gar- 
den with  striking  brilliancy,  as  their  dense  green  motionless 
crowns  shone  in  the  illuminated  spot  of  azure  sky.  The 
gleam  and  light  of  this  side  of  the  heavens  was  strongly 
contrasted  with  the  heav}^  purplish  cloud  which  lay  before  us 
above  the  young  birches  which  were  visible  on  the  horizon. 

A  little  farther  to  the  right,  behind  the  bushes  and  trees, 
we  could  already  see  the  multi-colored  roofs  of  the  buildings 
of  the  villa,  some  of  which  reflected  the  brilliant  rays  of  the 
sun,  while  some  assumed  the  melancholy  character  of  the 
other  half  of  the  heavens.  Below,  on  the  left,  the  motion- 
less pond  gleamed  blue,  surrounded  by  pale  green  willows 
which  stood  out  darkly  against  its  dull  and  seemingly  swollen 
surface.  Beyond  the  pond,  halfway  up  the  hill,  stretched  a 
bl.ack  steaming  field  ;  and  the  straight  line  of  green  which 
divided  it  in  the  middle  ran  off  into  the  distance,  and  rested 
on  the  threatening,  lead-colored  horizon.  On  l)Oth  sides  of 
the  soft  road,  along  which  the  phaeton  rolled  with  regular 
motion,  luxuriant  tangled  rye  stood  out  sharply  in  its  ver- 
dure, and  was  already  beginning  to  develop  stalks  here  and 
there.  The  air  was  perfectly  quiet,  and  exhaled  freshness  ; 
the  verdure  of  trees,  leaves,  and  rye  was  motionless  and 
unusualh'  pure  and  clear.  It  seemed  as  though  every  leaf, 
every  blade  of  grass,  were  liviuj;  its  own  free,  happy,  Individ- 


YOUTH.  283 

iial  life.  Beside  the  road,  I  espied  a  blackish  foot-path, 
which  wound  amid  the  dark  green  rye,  which  was  now 
more  than  quarter  grown  ;  and  this  path,  for  some  reason, 
recalled  the  A'illage  to  me  with  special  vividness  ;  and,  in 
consequence  of  my  thoughts  of  the  village,  b}'  some  strange 
combination  of  ideas,  it  reminded  me  with  special  vividness 
of  Sonitchka,  and  that  I  was  in  love  with  her. 

In  spite  of  all  my  frieudship  for  Dmitri,  and  the  pleasure 
which  his  frankness  afforded  me,  I  did  not  want  to  know  any 
more  about  his  feelings  and  intentions  Avith  regard  to  Liubov 
Sergieevna  ;  but  I  Avanted,  without  fail,  to  inform  him  of  my 
love  for  Sonitchka,  which  seemed  to  me  love  of  a  much 
higher  type.  But.  for  some  reason,  I  -could  not  make  up 
my  mind  to  tell  him  directly  my  iileas  of  how  fine  it  would 
be,  when,  having  married  Sonitchka,  I  should  live  in  the 
country,  and  how  I  should  have  little  children  who  would 
creep  about  the  floor  and  call  me  papa,  and  how  delighted  I 
should  be  when  he  and  his  wife,  Liubov  Sergieevna,  came  to 
see  me  in  their  travelling  dress  :  but  in  place  of  all  this,  I 
pointed  at  the  setting  sun.  "  See,  Dmitri,  how  charming 
it  is!  " 

Dmitri  said  nothing,  being  apparently  displeased  that  1 
had  replied  to  his  confession,  which  had  [irobaltly  cost  him 
some  pain,  l\y  directing  his  attention  to  natiu-e,  to  which  he 
was,  in  general,  coolly  indifferent.  Nature  affected  him 
ver}'  differently  from  what  it  did  me  :  it  affected  him  not  so 
much  l)y  its  Ijcaut}'  as  by  its  interest;  he  loved  it  with  his 
Blind,  rather  than  with  his  feelings. 

"  I  am  very  happ}',"  I  said  to  him  after  this,  paying  no 
heed  to  the  fact  that  he  was  evidently  occupied  with  his  own 
thoughts,  and  was  quite  indifferent  to  whatever  I  might  say 
to  him  ;  "I  ЬеИел'е  I  told  з'ои  about  a  young  lady  with  whom 
I  was  in  love  when  a  child  ;  I  have  seen  her  again  to-day," 
I  continued  with  enthusiasm,  "■  and  now  I  am  decidedly  in 
love  with  her." 

And  I  told  him  about  my  love,  and  all  my  plans  for  con- 
sul )ial  bliss  in  the  future,  in  spite  of  the  expression  of  indif- 

rence  which  still  lingered  on  his  face.  And,  strange  to 
say,  no  sooner  had  I  minutely  described  all  the  strength  of 
my  feeling,  than  it  began  to  decrease. 

The  rain  ол-ertook  us  just  after  we  had  entered  the  birch 
avenue  leading  to  the  villa.  I  onl}'  knew  that  it  was  raining 
because  a  few  drops  fell  upou  my  nose  and  hand,  and  some- 


'/ 


284  YOUTH. 

thing  pattered  on  the  young,  sticky  loaves  of  the  hirnhes, 
which,  drooping  their  curling  motionless  branches,  seemed  to 
receive  these  pure,  transparent  drops  on  themselves  with 
delight,  which  was  expressed  l)y  the  strong  [)i.M-fume  with 
which  they  filled  the  avenue.  We  descended  from  the  calush, 
in  order  to  reach  the  house  more  quickly  by  running  through 
the  garden.  But  just  at  the  entrance  to  the  house  we  en- 
countered four  ladies,  two  of  whom  had  some  work,  the  third 
a  book,  and  the  other  was  approaching  from  another  directi<jn 
with  a  little  dog,  at  a  rapid  pace.  Dmitri  immediately  i  re- 
sented me  to  his  mother,  sister,  aunt,  and  Liubov  Sergieevna. 
They  stopped  for  a  moment,  but  the  rain  began  to  descend 
faster  and  faster. 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  veranda,  and  3'ou  shall  introduce  him  to 
us  again  there,"  said  the  one  Avhom  I  took  to  be  Dmitii's 
mother  ;  and  we  ascended  the  steps  with  the  ladies. 


YOUTH.  285 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

THE    NEKIILIUDOFFS. 

At  first  sight,  out  of  all  this  compaii}'  the  one  who  struck 
me  most  was  Liubov  Sergieevna,  who  mounted  the  steps  last 
of  all,  in  thick  knitted  shoes,  holding  in  her  arms  a  Bo- 
lognese  spaniel,  and,  halting  twice,  gazed  attentively  at  me 
and  immediately  afterwards  kissed  her  dog.  She  was  very 
ugly,  red-h;iired,  thin,  short,  and  rather  one-sided.  What 
rendered  her  homely  face  even  plainer  was  her  queer  manner 
of  dressing  her  hair,  all  to  one  side  (one  of  those  coiffures 
which  bald  women  invent  for  themselves).  Try  as  1  would, 
out  of  a  desire  to  [)lease  my  friend,  I  could  not  discover  a 
single  good  feature  in  her.  Even  her  l)rown  eyes,  although 
they  expressed  good-nature,  were  too  small  and  dull,  and 
decidedly  ugly  ;  even  her  hands,  that  characteristic  trait, 
though  not  large,  and  not  bad  in  shape,  were  red  and  rough. 

When  I  followed  them  on  to  the  terrace,  each  one  of  the 
ladies,  except  Varenka,  Dmitri's  sister,  who  only  surveyed 
me  attentively  with  her  great,  dark-gray  e3'es,  said  a  few 
words  to  me  before  they  resumed  their  several  occupations  ; 
but  Varenka  began  to  read  aloud  from  the  book  which  she 
held  on  her  knee,  using  her  finger  as  a  murker. 

Princess  Marya  Ivanovna  was  a  tall,  stately  woman  of 
fort}'.  She  might  have  been  taken  for  more,  judging  l»y  the 
curls  of  half-gray  hair  which  were  frankly  displayed  beneath 
her  cap.  But  she  seemed  much  younger,  on  account  of  her 
fresh  and  delicate  face,  which  was  scarcely  wrinkled  at  all, 
and  particularly  from  the  lively,  merry  gleam  of  her  lai'ge 
eyes.  Her  eyes  were  brown,  and  very  well  opened ;  her 
lips  were  too  thin,  and  somewhat  stern  ;  her  nose  was  suf- 
ficiently regular,  and  a  little  to  the  left  side  ;  there  were  no 
rings  on  her  large,  almost  masculine  hands,  with  their  long 
fingers.  She  wore  a  close,  dark-blue  dress,  which  fitted 
tightly  to  her  elegant  and  still  youthful  figure,  of  which  she 


286  YOUTH. 

was  evidently  pronrl.  She  sat  remarkabl}'  upright,  and 
sewed  on  some  garment.  When  I  enteied  the  veranda  she 
took  my  hand,  drew  me  towards  her  as  though  desii'ous  of 
viewing  me  more  elosel}',  and  said,  as  she  looked  at  me  with 
the  same  cold,  open  gaze  which  her  son  also  possessed,  that 
she  had  long  known  me  from  Dmitri's  accounts  of  me,  and 
that  slie  had  invited  me  to  spend  a  whole  day  with  them,  in 
order  that  she  might  become  better  acquainted  with  me. 
"  Do  whatcA'er  you  like,  without  minding  us  in  the  least, 
just  as  we  shall  put  no  constraint  on  ourselves  because  of 
you.  Walk,  read,  listen,  or  sleep,  if  that  amuses  you 
more,"  she  added. 

Sophia  Ivanovna  was  an  elderly  spinster,  and  the  Prin- 
cess's youngest  sister,  but  from  her  looks  she  seemed  older. 
She  had  that  peculiar  build,  full  of  character,  Avhich  is  only 
met  with  in  very  plump,  short  old  maids  who  wear  corsets. 
It  was  as  if  all  her  health  had  risen  ui)wards  with  such  force 
that  it  threatened  every  moment  to  suffocate  her.  Her  little 
fat  hands  could  not  meet  beneath  the  projecting  point  of  her 
bodice,  and  the  tightly  stretched  point  itself  she  could  not 
see.  There  was  a  strong  family  resemblance  between  the 
sisters,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  lilarya  Ivanovna  had  lilack 
hair  and  black  eyes,  and  Sopliia  Ivanovna  was  a  blonde  with 
large,  livel}',  and  at  the  same  time  calm,  blue  e^'es  (which  is  a 
great  rarity).  They  had  the  same  expression,  the  same  nose, 
and  the  same  lips,  only  Sophia  Ivanovna's  nose  and  lips 
were  a  little  thicker,  and  on  the  right  side  when  she  smiled, 
while  the  Princess's  were  on  the  left.  Sophia  Ivanovna  evi- 
dently tried  to  appear  young  still,  judging  from  her  dress 
and  coitTure,  and  w^uld  not  have  disi)layed  her  gray  curls  if 
she  had  had  them.  Her  looks  and  her  treatment  of  me 
seemed  to  me  extremel}'  haughty  from  the  ver}'  first  moment, 
and  they  emliarrassed  me  ;  while  with  the  Princess,  on  the 
other  hand,  I  felt  perfectly  at  my  ease.  Possibly  it  was  her 
stoutness,  and  a  certain  likeness  in  her  figure  to  the  portrait 
of  Catherine  the  Great  which  struck  me  in  her,  that  gave  her 
that  haughty  aspect  in  my  e^^es  ;  but  I  was  thoroughly  abashed 
when  she  said  to  me,  gazing  at  me  intently  the -while,  ''The 
friends  of  our  friends  are  our  friends."  I  regained  my  com- 
posure, and  changed  my  opinion  of  her  entirely,  only  when, 
after  uttering  these  words,  she  paused  a  Avhile,  and  then 
opened  her  month,  and  sighed  heavily.  It  must  have  been 
on  account  of  her  stoutness  that  she  had  a  habit  of  sighing 


тоитп.  287 

deeply  after  sajing  a  few  words,  opening  her  mouth  a  little, 
and  rolling  her  large  blue  eyes.  So  much  amiable  good- 
nature was  expressed  by  this  habit,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
that  after  that  sigh  I  lost  all  fear  of  her,  and  she  pleased  me 
extremely.  Her  eyes  were  charming,  her  voice  melodious 
and  pleasing ;  ел^еп  the  excessively  rounded  lines  of  her 
form  seemed  to  me  at  that  period  of  my  youth  not  devoid 
of  beauty. 

Liubov  Sergieevna.  as  the  friend  of  my  friend,  would 
(I  supposed)  innnediately  say  something  extremely  friendly 
and  contidential  to  me,  and  she  even  gazed  at  me  quite  a  long 
Avhile  in  silence  as  if  in  indecision  as  to  whether  what  she 
meant  to  say  to  me  Avere  not  too  friendly  ;  but  she  only  broke 
the  silence  in  order  to  inquire  in  what  course  I  was.  Tlien 
slie  gazed  at  me  again  intently  for  quite  a  while,  evidently 
hesitating  whether  to  utter  or  not  to  utter  that  confidential, 
friendly  word  ;  and  I,  perceiving  this  doubt,  besought  her  by 
the  expression  of  my  countenance  to  tell  me  all ;  but  she  said, 
'•  They  say  that  very  little  attention  is  paid  to  science  in  the 
universities  nowadays,"  and  callt'd  her  little  dog  Suzette. 

Liubov  Sergieevna  talked  the  whole  evening  in  the  same 
soit  of  phrases,  which,  for  the  most  part,  fitted  neither  the 
matter  in  hand  nor  each  other ;  but  I  believed  so  firmly  in 
Dmitri,  and  he  looked  so  anxiously  first  at  me  and  then  at 
her  the  whole  CA'cning  Avith  an  expression  that  asked,  "  Well, 
Avhat  do  you  think?"  —  that,  as  it  frequently  happens, 
although  I  was  already  convinced  in  my  own  soul  that  there 
was  nothing  so  very  special  about  Liubov  vSergieevna,  I  was 
very  far  from  expressing  my  thought  even  to  myself. 

Finally,  the  last  member  of  this  family,  Varenka,  was  a 
very  plump  girl  of  sixteen. 

The  only  pretty  things  al)out  her  Avere  her  great  dark-gray 
eyes,  with  an  expression  which  united  mirth  and  calm  obser- 
vation, and  were  very  nuich  like  her  aunt's  eyes;  her  very 
large  blonde  braid  of  hair  ;  and  an  extremely  soft  and  pretty 
hand. 

"  I  think  it  bores  you.  Mr.  Nicolas,  to  listen  to  the  middle 
of  this,"  said  Sophia  Ivanovna  Avith  her  good-natured  sigh, 
turning  over  the  pieces  of  a  garment  which  she  was  engaged 
in  sewing.  The  reading  had  come  to  an  end  by  this  time, 
because  Dmitri  had  gone  off  somewhere. 

"  Or  perhaps  you  have  alread}^  read  '  Rob  Roy?  '  " 

At  that  time  1  considered  it  my  duty,  simi)ly  because  1 


288  YOUTH. 

wore  a  student's  uniform,  to  repl}'  with  great  intpJh'genre  and 
originaiitf/  without  fail  to  every  questi(Mi,  however  smiple. 
from  people  whom  I  did  not  Icnow  very  well  ;  and  I  regarded 
it  as  the  greatest  disgrace  to  make  brief,  clear  replies  li'vc 
"yes"  and  "no,"  "it  is  tiresome,"  "it  is  pleasant."  and 
the  like.  Glancing  at  my  fashionable  new  trousers,  and  at 
the  brilliant  buttons  on  m}-  coat,  1  rc^plied  that  I  had  not  read 
"  Rob  Koy,"  but  that  it  was  very  inleresliug  to  me  to  listen 
to  it,  because  1  preferred  to  read  books  from  the  middle 
instead  of  from  the  beginning. 

"It  is  twice  as  interesting:  you  can  guess  at  wh:\t  has 
happened,  and  what  will  happen,"  1  added  with  a  self-satis- 
fied smile. 

The  Princess  began  to  laugh  a  kind  of  unnatural  laugh 
(I  afterwards  observed  that  she  had  no  other  laugh). 

"But  this  must  be  correct,"  said  she.  "And  shall  you 
remain  here  long,  Nicolas?  You  will  not  take  offence  that  1 
address  you  without  the  monsieur?  When  are  you  going 
away  ? ' ' 

"1  do  not  know  ;  to-moiTow  perhaps,  and  possibly  we  may 
stay  quite  a  long  time,"  I  replied  for  some  reason  or  other, 
although  we  must  certainly  go  on  the  morrow. 

"1  should  have  liked  you  to  remain,  both  for  our  sakes 
and  for  Dmitri's,"  remarked  the  Princess,  looking  off  in  ihe 
distance  ;   "  friendship  is  a  glorious  thing  at  your  age." 

1  felt  that  they  were  all  looking  at  me,  and  waiting  to  see 
what  I  would  say,  although  Varenka  pretended  that  she  was 
inspecting  her  aunt's  work.  I  felt  that  I  was  undergoing 
examination  after  a  fashion,  and  that  I  must  show  off  as 
favoral)ly  as  possible. 

"Yes,  for  me,"  said  I,  "Dmitri's  friendship  is  useful; 
but  I  cannot  be  useful  to  him,  he  is  a  thousand  times  better 
than  I."  (Dmitri  could  not  hear  what  I  was  sajing,  other- 
wise I  should  have  been  afraid  that  he  would  delect  the  in- 
sincerity of  my  words.) 

The  Princess  laughed  again  with  the  unnatural  laugh  which 
was  natural  to  her. 

"  Well,  but  to  hear  him  talk,"  said  she,  "it  is  you  лvho 
are  a  little  monster  of  perfection." 

"  '  A  monster  of  perfection,'  that's  capital,  I  must  remem- 
ber that,"   I  thought. 

"  However,  leaving  3'ou  out  of  the  case,  he  is  a  master- 
hand  at  that,"  she  went  on,  lowering  her  voice   (which  was 


YOUTH.  289 

particularly  agreeable  to  me),  and  indicating  Liubov  Ser- 
gieevua  with  her  eyes.  "He  has  discovered  in  his  poor 
little  aunt"  (that  was  what  they  called  Liubov  Sergieevna), 
"■  whom  I  have  known,  with  her  Suzette,  for  twenty  3'ears, 
such  perfections  as  I  never  even  suspected. — Varya,  order 
them  to  bring  me  a  glass  of  water,"  she  added,  glancing 
into  the  distance  again,  having  probably  discovered  that  it 
was  rather  earl}^,  or  not  at  all  necessary,  to  initiate  me  into 
family  affairs  :  "or,  better  still,  let  him  go.  He  has  noth- 
ing to  do,  and  do  you  go  on  reading.  — Go  straight  into  that 
door,  my  friend,  and  after  you  have  traversed  fviiy  paces 
halt,  and  say  in  a  loud  voice,  '  Piotr,  take  Marya  Ivauovna 
a  glass  of  ice-water  ! '  "  she  said  to  me,  and  again  she  laughed 
lightly  with  her  unnatural  laugh. 

"  She  certainly  wants  to  discuss  me,"  I  thought,  as  I  left 
the  room:  "probably  she  wants  to  say,  that  she  has  ob- 
serл^ed  that  I  am  a  very,  very  intelligent  young  man."  But 
I  had  not  gone  fifty  paces  when  fat  and  panting  Sophia 
IvanoA'na  overtook  me  with  light  swift  stepc. 

"Thanks,  mon  cher,"  said  she  :  "I  am  going  there  my- 
self, and  1  will  tell  him." 


290  J  о  и  TIL 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 


Sophia  Ivaxovxa,  a,s  I  afterwards  learned,  was  one  of 
those  rare  elderly  woman,  who,  though  born  for  family  life, 
have  been  denied  this  happiness  by  fate,  and  who,  in  conse- 
quence of  this  denial,  decide  all  at  once  to  pour  out  all  the 
treasure  of  love  which  has  been  stored  up  so  long,  which  has 
grown  and  strengthened  in  their  hearts,  upon  certain  chosen 
favorites.  And  the  store  is  so  inexhaustible  among  old 
maids  of  this  sort,  that,  although  the  chosen  ones  are  many, 
much  love  still  remains,  which  they  pour  out  upon  all  about 
thera,  on  all  the  good  and  bad  people  with  whom  they  come 
in  contact  in  life. 

There  are  three  kinds  of  Лол^е  :  — 

( 1 )  Beautiful  love  ; 

(2)  Self-sacrificing  love  ;  and 

(3)  Active  love. 

1  do  not  speak  of  the  love  of  a  young  man  for  a  young  girl, 
and  hers  for  him  :  J^:^'  these  tendernesses,  and  I  have  been 
so  unfortunate  in  lire  as  never  to  have  seen  a  single  spark  of 
truth  in  this  species  of  love,  but  only  a  lie,  in  which  senti- 
ment, connubial  relations,  mone}',  a  desire  to  bind  or  to 
u  )l)ind  one's  hands,  have  to  such  an  extent  confused  the 
fei'ling  itself,  that  it  has  been  imi)ossible  to  disentangle  it. 
1  am  speaking  of  the  love  for  man,  which,  according  to  the 
greater  or  lesser  ролуег  of  soul,  concentrates  itself  upon  one, 
upon  several,  or  pours  itself  out  upon  many  ;  of  the  lo\'e 
of  mother,  father,  brother,  children,  for  a  comrade,  friends, 
fellow-countryman,  — of  1ол^е  for  man. 

B"(iiitiful  love  consists  in  love  of  the  beauty  of  the  senti- 
ment itself,  and  its  expression.  For  people  who  love  thus, 
the  beloved  object  is  beloved  only  inasmuch  as  it  arouses 
^hat  agreeable  sentiment,  in  the  consciousness  and  expression 


YOUTH.  293 

every  thing  with  her  own  weak,  unskilled  lingers,  which  3*011 
cannot  avoid  watching  with  repressed  vexation,  when  those 
white  fingers  strive  in  vain  to  uncork  a  phial,  to  extinguish  a 
candle,  to  pour  out  your  medicine,  or  when  they  touch  you 
jteevishl}'.  If  you  are  an  impatient,  hot-tempered  man,  and 
beg  her  to  go  away,  you  hear  her  with  your  irritated,  sickly 
sense  of  hearing,  sighing  and  crying  outside  the  door,  and 
whispering  something  to  your  man  ;  and  finally,  if  3'ou  do  not 
die,  your  loving  wife,  who  has  not  slept  all  the  twenty  nights 
during  \vhich  your  sickness  has  lasted  (as  she  repeats  to  you 
incessantly),  falls  ill,  goes  into  a  decline,  suffers,  and  be- 
comes still  less  capable  of  anj'  occupation,  and,  by  the  time 
you  are  in  a  normal  condition,  expresses  her  1ол^е  of  self- 
sacrifice  only  b}'  a  gentle  ennui  which  involuntaril}'  com- 
mimicates  itself  to  you,  and  to  all  about  j'ou. 

The  third  sort  —  active  love  —  consists  in  the  endeavor 
to  satisf}^  all  needs,  desires,  whims,  all  vices  even,  of  the  \ 
beloved  object.  People  who  love  thus,  always  love  for  life  : 
for  the  more  they  love,  the  more  they  know  the  beloved 
object,  and  the  easier  it  is  for  them  to  love  ;  that  is,  to 
satisfy  his  desires.  Their  love  is  rarel}'  expressed  in  w^ords  ; 
and,  if  expressed,  it  is  not  with  self-satisfaction,  eloquently, 
.  but  shamefacedly,  awkwardly,  for  they  are  alw^ays  afraid 
that  they  do  not  love  sufficiently.  The}'  seek  reciprocity, 
even  willingly  deceiving  themselves,  believe  in  it,  and  are 
happy  if  they  have  it ;  but  the}'  love  all  the  same,  even  under 
the  opposite  conditions,  and  not  only  desire  happiness  for  the 
beloved  object,  but  constantly  strive  to  procure  it  for  him  l>y 
all  the  moral  and  material,  the  great  and  the  petty  means 
which  are  in  their  power. 

And  it  was  this  active  love  for  her  nephew,  for  her  sister, 
for  Linl)ov  Sergieevna,  for  me,  even,  because  Dmitri  loved 
me.  Avhicli  shone  in  the  eyes,  in  every  word  and  movement, 
of  Sophia  Ivanovna. 

It  was  only  much  later  that  I  estimated  Sophia  Ivanovna 
at  her  full  worth  ;  but  even  then  the  question  occurred  to 
me.  Why  did  Dmitri,  who  was  trying  to  understand  love  in 
a  totally  different  fashion  from  what  was  usual  with  young 
men,  and  who  had  always  before  his  eyes  this  sweet,  affec- 
tionate Sophia  Ivanovna,  suddenl}'  fall  in  love  with  that 
incomprehensible  Liubov  Sergieevna,  and  only  admit  that 
his  aunt  also  possessed  good  qualities?  Evidently,  the  say- 
ing is  just:  "A  prophet  has  no  honor  in  his  own  country." 


294  Yourn. 

One  of  two  things  must  be  :  either  there  actuall}^  is  more 
evil  than  good  in  every  man,  or  else  man  is  more  accessiiile 
to  evil  than  to  good.  He  had  not  known  Liubov  Sergieevna 
long,  but  his  aunt's  love  he  had  experienced  ever  since  his 
birth. 


YOUTH.  295 


CHAPTER  XXV, 

I    BECOME    ACQUAINTED. 

When  I  returned  to  the  л'егапс1а,  they  were  not  speakhig 
of  me  at  all,  as  I  had  sii])posed  :  but  Varenka  was  not  read- 
ing ;  and,  having  laid  aside  her  book,  she  was  engaged  in  a 
hot  dispute  with  Dmitri,  who  was  pacing  back  and  forth, 
settling  liis  neck  in  his  neckerchief,  and  screwing  up  his 
eyes.  The  subject  of  their  quarrel  seemed  to  be  Ivan  Yakov- 
levitch  and  superstition  ;  but  the  quarrel  was  so  fierj',  that 
the  real  but  unmeutioned  cause  could  not  fail  to  be  a  dif- 
ferent one,  and  one  which  touched  the  whole  family  more 
nearly.  The  Princess  and  Liubov  Sergieevna  sat  silent,  lis- 
tening to  every  word,  evideutly  desirous  at  times  to  take 
part  in  the  discussion,  but  restraining  themselves,  and  allow- 
ing themselves  to  be  represented,  the  one  by  Varenka,  the 
other  by  Dmitri.  When  I  entered,  Varenka  glanced  at  me 
with  such  an  expression  of  indifference  that  it  was  plain  that 
the  dispute  interested  her  deei)ly,  and  that  it  made  no  differ- 
ence to  her  whether  I  heard  what  she  said  or  not.  The 
Princess,  who  evidenth'  was  on  Varenka's  side,  wore  the 
same  expression.  But  Dmitri  began  to  dispute  with  even 
greater  heat  in  my  presence  ;  and  Liubov  Sergieevna  seemed 
excessively  frightened  at  m}'  appearance,  and  said,  without 
addressing  an}-  one  in  particular,  ''Old  people  say  truly:  If 
youth  knew,  if  old  age  had  the  power"  {si  jeunesse  savait, 
si  vieillesse  pnuvait) . 

Ikit  this  adage  did  not  put  an  end  to  the  dispute,  and  only 
promi)ted  the  tiiought  in  me  that  Liubov  Sergieevna  and  my 
friend  were  in  the  wrong.  Although  I  felt  rather  avvkward 
at  being  present  at  a  petty  family  quarrel,  it  was  neverthe- 
less pleasant  to  ol)serve  the  real  relations  of  this  family, 
which  were  exhibited  in  consequence  of  the  deliate  ;  and  I 
felt  that  my  presence  did  not  prevent  their  exhibiting  them- 
selves. 


296  YOUTH. 

It  often  happens  that  you  see  a  family  for  years  under  the 
same  deceitful  veil  of  propriety,  and  the  true  relations  of  the 
members  remain  a  secret  to  you.  (1  have  even  observed, 
that,  the  more  impenetrable  and  ornamental  the  curtain,  the 
coarser  are  the  genuine  relations  which  are  concealed  fn^m 
you.)  Then  it  comes  to  pass  on  a  day,  quite  unexpectedly, 
that  there  arises  in  this  family  circle  some  question,  often 
apparentl}'  trivial,  concerning  some  blonde,  or  a  visit  with 
the  husband's  horses  :  and,  without  any  visible  cause,  the 
quarrel  grows  more  and  more  violent,  the  space  beneath  the 
curtain  becomes  too  contracted  for  a  settlement,  and  all  at 
once,  to  the  terror  of  the  wranglers  themselves,  and  to  the 
amazement  of  those  present,  all  the  real,  coarse  relations 
creep  out ;  the  curtain,  which  no  longer  covers  any  thing, 
flutters  useless  between  the  warring  sides,  and  only  serves 
to  remind  you  how  long  you  have  been  deceived  by  it. 
Often  it  is  not  so  painful  to  dash  one's  head  against  the  ceil- 
ing in  full  swing  as  it  is  to  touch  a  sore  and  sensitive  spot, 
though  ever  so  lightly.  And  such  a  sore  and  sensitiA^e 
spot  exists  in  nearly  every  family.  In  the  Nekhliudoff  fam- 
ily, this  sensitive  spot  consisted  of  Dmitri's  strange  love  for 
Liubov  Sergieevna,  which  aroused  in  his  mother  and  sister, 
if  not  a  sense  of  envy,  at  least  a  sentiment  of  wounded 
family  feeling.  Therefore  it  was  that  the  dispute  about 
Ivan  Yakovleviteh  and  superstition  held  such  a  serious  sig- 
uiticance  for  all  of  them. 

"  You  are  always  trying  to  see  into  what  other  people 
ridicule  and  despise,"  said  Varenka,  in  her  melodious  voice, 
pronouncing  every  letter  distinctly.  "  It  is  just  iu  all  those 
kinds  of  things  that  you  tr^'  to  discover  something  remark- 
ably tine." 

"■In  the  first  place,  only  the  most  frivolous  of  men  can 
speak  of  despising  such  a  remarkable  man  as  Ivan  Yakovle- 
viteh," retorted  Dmitri,  throwing  his  head  spasmodically  on 
the  opposite  side  from  his  sister  ;  ''  and  iu  the  second  jilace, 
you  are  trying  purposely  not  to  see  the  good  which  stands 
before  your  very  eyes." 

On  her  return  to  us,  Sophia  Ivanovna  glanced  зелчм-а! 
times,  in  a  frightened  way,  now  at  her  nephew,  then  at  her 
niece,  then  at  me  ;  and  twice  she  opened  her  mouth  as  though 
to  speak,  and  sighed  heavily. 

"  Please,  Varya,  read  as  quickly  as  possilile,"  she  said, 
handing  her  the  book,  and  tapping  her  caressingly  on  the 


тоитгт.  2У7 

hand  ;  "I  am  xevy  anxious  to  know  whether  they  found  her 
again.  [It  seems  that  there  is  no  question  whateA'cr,  in  tlie 
book,  of  any  one  finding  any  one  else.]  And  as  for  you, 
Mit3'a,  my  dear,  you  had  better  wrap  up  j-our  cheek,  for  tlie 
air  is  fresh,  and  your  teeth  will  ache  again,"  said  she  to  her 
nephew,  notwithstanding  the  look  of  displeasure  which  he 
cast  upon  her,  proljabl}'  because  she  had  broken  tlie  thread 
of  his  argument.     The  reading  was  resumed. 

This  little  quarrel  did  not  in  the  least  disturb  the  family 
peace,  and  that  sensible  concord  which  breathed  from  that 
feminine  circle. 

This  circle,  to  which  Princess  Marj^a  Ivanovna  eA'idently 
gave  the  character  and  direction,  had  for  me  a  perfectly 
novel  and  attractive  tone,  of  a  certain  sort  of  logic,  and  at 
the  same  time  of  simplicity  and  elegance.  This  tone  was 
expressed  for  me  by  the  beaut^',  purity,  and  simplicity  of 
things,  —  the  bell,  the  binding  of  the  book,  the  arm-chair, 
the  table  ;  and  in  the  straight,  snug  bodice,  in  the  pose  of 
the  Princess,  in  her  gray  curls  brought  out  into  view,  and 
in  her  manner  of  calling  me  simply  Nicolas,  and  he,  at  our 
first  meeting  ;  in  their  occupations,  the  reading  aloud,  the 
scAving ;  and  in  the  remarkable  whiteness  of  the  ladies' 
hands.  (They  all  had  a  common  family  mark  on  the  hand, 
which  consisted  in  the  soft  portion  of  the  palm  being  of  a 
deep-red  hue,  and  separated  by  a  sharp,  straight  line  from 
the  unusual  whiteness  of  the  upper  part  of  the  hand.)  But 
this  character  was  expressed  most  of  all,  in  the  excellent 
manner  in  which  all  three  spoke  French  and  Russian  ;  pro- 
nouncing every  letter  distinctly,  and  finishing  every  word  and 
jilu-ase  with  pedantic  accuracy'.  All  this,  and  in  particular 
the  fact  that  they  treated  me  simply  and  seriously  in  this 
society,  as  a  growm-up  person,  uttered  their  own  thoughts  to 
me,  listened  to  my  opinions,  —  to  this  I  was  so  little  accus- 
tomed, that,  in  spite  of  my  brilliant  buttons  and  blue  facings, 
I  Avas  still  afraid  they  would  say  to  me,  all  at  once,  ^^  Do 
you  think  people  are  going  to  talk  seriously  with  you?  go 
stud}^ !  " — all  this  resulted  in  my  not  feeling  the  slightest 
embarrassment  in  their  society.  I  I'ose  and  changed  my  seat 
from  place  to  place,  and  talked  with  all  except  Varenka,  to 
whom  it  still  seemed  to  me  improper,  for  some  reason,  to 
speak  first. 

During  the  reading,  as  I  listened  to  her  pleasant  voice,  I 
glanced  now  at  her,  now  at  the  sandy  path  of  the  flower- 


298  YOUTH. 

garden,  upon  which  dark  ronnd  spots  of  rain  were  forming, 
upon  the  lindens,  on  whose  k'aves  occasional  drops  of  rain 
still  continned  to  patter  from  the  pale,  bluish  edge  of  the 
thinning  thunder-cloud  which  enveloped  us,  then  at  her 
again,  then  at  the  last  crimson  ra^^s  of  the  setting  sun,  which 
illmninated  the  dense  and  ancient  birches  all  dripping  with 
rain,  and  then  at  Л^агепка  again  ;  and  I  decided  that  she  was 
not  at  all  ugly,  as  she  had  seemed  to  ше  at  first. 

"  It's  a  pity  that  I  am  already  in  love,"  I  thought,  "  and 
that  Varenka  is  not  Sonitchka.  How  nice  \t  would  be  to 
suddenly  become  a  member  of  this  famil}' !  1  should  gain  a 
mother  and  an  aunt  and  a  лvife  all  at  once."  And  as  medi- 
tating thus  I  glanced  at  Л^агепка  as  she  read,  and  thought 
that  I  would  magnetize  her,  and  make  her  look  at  me,  Va- 
renka raised  her  head  from  her  book,  glanced  at  me,  and, 
meeting  my  ej^es.  turned  away. 

"  It  has  not  stopped  raining  j-et,"  she  said. 

And  all  at  once  I  experienced  a  strange  sensation.  T  sud- 
denly recollected  tliat  Avhat  was  now  happening  to  me  was  an 
exact  repetition  of  what  had  hai)pened  once  before  ;  that 
then,  also,  a  light  rain  was  falling,  and  the  sun  was  setting 
behind  the  birches,  and  I  was  looking  at  Лег,  and  she  was 
reading,  and  I  had  magnetized  her,  and  she  had  glanced  up, 
and  I  had  even  recollected  that  this  had  happened  before. 

"Is  it  she?  she 9"  I  thought.  "^  Is  it  beginning V  But 
I  speedily  decided  that  she  was  not  the  s/ie,  and  that  it  was 
not  beginning  yet.  "In  the  first  place,  she  is  ugly,"  I 
thought;  "and  in  the  next  place,  she  is  simply  a  j'oung 
lady,  and  I  have  made  her  acquaintance  in  the  most  com- 
monplace manner.  But  she  will  be  remarka1)le,  and  I  shall 
meet  her  somewhere,  in  some  uncommon  place  ;  and,  besides, 
this  family  only  pleases  me  so  much  because  I  have  not  see» 
any  thing  yet,"  I  decided.  "  But  of  course  there  are  always 
sucL .  and  I  shall  meet  with  many  during  my  life." 


YOUTH.  299 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

I     SIIOAV     MYSELF     FROM     THE     MOST     ADVANTAGEOUS     POINT     OP 

VIEW. 

At  tea-time  the  reading  came  to  an  end  ;  and  tlie  ladies 
engaged  in  a  conversation  between  themselves,  about  persons 
and  circnmstances  with  which  I  was  unfamiliar,  expressly,  so 
it  seemed  to  me,  for  the  purpose  of  making  me  feel,  in  spite 
of  my  cordial  recejition,  the  dilTerence  which  existed,  both  in 
years  and  in  worldly  position,  between  them  and  me.     But  in 
the  general  conversation  in  which  I  could  take  part,  I  made 
up  for  my  former  silence,  and   endeavored  to  exhibit  my 
remarkable  intelligence  and  originalit}',  which  I  considered 
that  my  uniform  specially  bound  me  to  do.     When  the  con- 
versation turned  on  country-houses,  I  suddenly  related  how 
Prince  Ivan  Ivan  itch  had  such  a  villa  neai-  Moscow  that  peo- 
ple came  from  London  and  Paris  to  see  it ;  that  there  was 
a  grating  there  which  was  worth  three  hundred  and  eight}' 
thousand  rubles  ;  and  that  Prince  1л'ап  Ivanitch  was  a  very 
near  relative  of  mine,  and  that  I  had  dined  with  him  that 
day,  and  he  had  told  me  tliat  I  must  be  sure  to  come  andi 
spend  the  whole  summer  with   him   at   that  villa,   but   thatl 
1  liad  refused,  because  I  knew  the  house  very  well,  since  l\ 
had  l)een  there  a  number  of  times,  and  tliat  all  those  fences  ) 
and  ])ridges  were  not  at  all  interesting  to  me  because  I  could  A 
not  bear  luxury,  especially  in  the  countrj^,  and  that  I  liked] 
every  thing  in  the  country  to  be  like  the  country.     Havingf 
uttered  this  strangely  complicated  lie,  I  became  coi1ifused,j 
and  turned  so  red  that  every  one  must  have  certainlj-  per-/ 
ceived  that  I  was  l^'ing.     Varenka,  who  handed  me  a  cup  of^ 
tea  at  that  moment,  and  Sophia  Ivanovna,  who   had  been 
gazing  at  me  while  I  was  spealving,  both  turned  awa}'  from 
me,  and  began  to  talk  of  something  else,  with  an  expression 
of  countenance  which  I  have  often  met  with  in  good  people 
since  then,  when  a  very  3'oung  man  begins  plainly  to  lie  iu 


300  YOUTH. 

their  very  faces,  and  which  signifies,  "Of  course  wc  know 
that  he  is  lying,  and  Avliy  lie  does  it,  poor  fellow  !  " 

The  reason  why  1  said  that  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  had  a 
лчИа  was  that  I  saw  no  better  pretext  for  mentioning  my 
I'elationship  to  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch.  and  that  I  liad  dined 
with  him  that  day  ;  but  wh}^  did  I  tell  about  that  grating  worth 
three  hundred  and  eighty  thousand  rubles,  and  that  I  had 
])een  to  his  house  so  often,  when  1  had  never  been  even  once, 
and  could  not  go,  since  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch  lived  only  in 
Moscow  or  Naples,  which  the  Nekhliudoffs  knew  verj'  well? 
I  really  cannot  account  to  myself  for  it.  Neither  in  child- 
)hood,  nor  boyhood,  nor  afterwards  in  a  riper  stage  of  growth, 
have  I  ever  detected  the  vice  of  l3'ing  in  myself;  on  the  con- 
trary, I  have  lieen  rather  too  frank  and  upright :  but  during 
this  first  period  of  adolescence,  a  strange  desire  to  lie  in  the 
most  desperate  manner,  and  without  any  apparent  cause, 
frequently  took  possession  of  me.  I  say  "desperate  man- 
ner" expressly,  because  I  lied  about  things  where  it  was 
extremely  easy  to  find  me  out.  It  seems  to  me  that  a  \sxix\- 
glorious  desire  to  show  myself  off  as  an  entireh'  different 
man  from  what  I  am,  united  to  the  impracticable  hope  in  life 
of  lying  so  as  not  to  be  detected  in  the  lie,  was  the  chief 
cause  of  this  strange  tendency. 

After  tea,  as  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  the  weather  was 
clear  and  calm,  the  Princess  proposed  that  avc  should  go  for 
a  walk  in  the  lower  garden,  and  admii'e  her  faA'orite  spot.  In 
accordance  with  my  rule  of  alwa^'s  being  original,  and  con- 
sidei-ing  that  such  clever  people  as  the  Princess  and  myself 
must  stand  above  trivial  politeness,  I  replied  that  I  could  not 
V)ear  to  walk  without  an  object,  and  if  I  cared  to  walk  at  all, 
it  was  quite  alone.  I  had  no  idea  that  this  was  downright 
rude  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me  then  that  there  was  nothing  more 
disgraceful  than  state  compliments,  that  notliing  was  more 
amiable  and  original  than  a  little  discourteous  frankness. 
Nevertheless,  quite  content  with  my  answer,  I  went  to  walk 
with  the  rest  of  the  company. 

The  Princess's  favorite  spot  was  at  the  very  bottom  of  the 
garden  in  its  depths,  on  a  little  bridge  which  was  thrown 
over  a  small  swamp.  The  view  was  extremely  restricted, 
but  very  melancholy  and  pleasing.  We  are  so  accustomed 
to  confounding  art  with  nature,  that  very  frequentl}^  those 
manifestations  of  nature  which  we  have  never  encountered 
in  pictures  seem  to  us  unnatural,  —  as  though  nature  could 


YOIJTTL  301 

bo  nnnatiiral,  —  and  those  plienomona  which  have  been  too 
frequently  repented  in  art  seem  to  us  threadbare.  But 
some  views,  too  thoroughly  penetrated  with  thought  and  sen- 
timent alone,  seem  fantastic  when  we  come  upon  them  in 
nature.  The  view  from  the  Princess's  favorite  place  was  of 
this  nature.  It  consisted  of  a  small  pond  with  overgrown 
banks  ;  directly  behind  it  was  a  stef^p  hill  covered  with  vast, 
ancient  trees  and  bushes,  with  frequent  changes  in  its  many- 
hued  verdure  ;  and  at  the  foot  of  the  hill,  drooping  over  the 
pond,  an  ancient  birch,  which,  parti}'  clinging  to  the  damp 
bank  of  the  pool  with  its  thick  roots,  rested  its  crown  upon 
a  tall  and  stately  ash-tree,  and  swung  its  curling  branches 
ол'сг  the  smooth  surface  of  the  pond,  which  gave  back  the 
reflection  of  these  drooping  boughs  and  the  surrounding 
greenery. 

"How  charming!"  said  the  Princess,  shaking  her  head, 
and  not  addressing  any  one  in  particular. 

"  Yes,  it  is  wonderful,  only  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  fright- 
fully like  theatrical  scenery,"  said  I,  desirous  of  showing 
that  I  had  an  opinion  of  my  own  on  every  thing. 

The  Princess  continued  to  admire  the  view  as  though  she 
had  not  hoard  ni}'  remark,  and  turning  to  her  sister  and  Liu- 
bov  Sergieevna  she  pointed  out  separate  details,  —  the  crook- 
ed ovoi-hanging  stump,  and  the  reflection  which  particularly 
pleased  her.  Sophia  Ivanovna  said  that  it  was  all  very 
beautiful,  and  that  her  sister  was  in  the  habit  of  passing 
several  hours  at  a  time  here  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  she  only 
said  so  to  please  the  Piincess.  I  have  observed  that  people 
who  are  endowed  with  the  facult}'  of  love  are  rarely  sensitive 
to  the  beauties  of  nature.  Liubov  SeigiecA'na  also  went  into 
iai)tures,  asking,  ''  What  does  that  birch  hold  to?  will  it  stand 
l.)ng?"  and  she  glanced  constantly  at  her  Suzette,  who  ran 
back  and  forth  across  the  bridge  on  her  crooked  legs,  wagging 
her  tail,  with  an  anxious  expression,  as  though  for  the  first 
time  in  her  life  it  had  chanced  to  her  not  to  be  in  a  room, 
bmitri  began  a  logical  argument  with  his  mother,  on  the 
point  that  no  view  could  be  very  beautiful  where  the  horizon 
was  limited.  Varonka  said  nothing.  When  I  glanced  round 
at  her,  she  Vv'as  standing  leaning  on  the  railing  of  the  bridge, 
with  her  profile  towards  me,  and  looking  straight  in  front 
of  her.  Something  pro1)a1>ly  interested  her  deeply,  and  even 
touched  her  ;  for  she  had  evidently  forgotten  herself,  and  had 
no  thought  for  herself  or  that  she  was  being  lookQd  at.     Her 


802  YOUTH. 

large  eyes  were  so  full  of  intent  observation,  of  calm,  clear 
thought,  her  pose  was  so  unaffected,  and  in  s[)ite  of  her 
short  stature  there  was  so  much  niajest3^bout  her,  that  I 
was  again  struck  by  what  seemed  a  memory  of  her,  and 
again  I  asked  myself,  *■' Is  it  not  beginning':'"  and  again  I 
answered  myself,  that  I  was  already  in  love  with  8ouitchka, 
and  that  Varenka  was  simply  a  young  lady,  the  sister  of  my 
friend.  But  she  pleased  me  at  that  moment,  and  I  felt  in 
consequence  an  unbounded  desire  to  do  or  say  to  her  some 
little  unpleasant  thing. 

"  Do  you  know,  Dmitri,"  I  said  to  my  friend,  approaching 
nearer  to  Varenka,  in  order  that  she  might  hear  what  1  was 
about  to  say,  "  I  think,  that,  even  if  there  were  not  any 
mosquitoes,  there  would  be  nothing  beautiful  about  this 
place  ;  and  now,"  I  added,  slapping  my  forehead,  and  really 
crushing  a  mosquito,   ''  it's  perfectly  dreadful." 

"  You  do  not  seem  to  love  nature?  "  said  Varenka  to  me, 
without  turning  her  head. 

"  I  think  it  is  an  idle,  useless  occupation,"  I  replied,  very 
well  satisfied  with  having  uttered  my  little  unpleasantness, 
and  having  been  original.  Varenka  raised  her  e3'ebrows  iu 
an  almost  imperceptible  manner  for  a  moment,  with  an  ex- 
pression of  pity,  and  continued  to  look  straight  before  her  as 
composedly  as  ever. 

I  was  vexed  with  her  ;  but  in  spite  of  this,  the  grayish  rail- 
ing of  the  bridge  with  its  faded  paint,  upon  which  she  leaned, 
the  reflection  in  the  dark  pond  of  the  drooping  stump  of  the 
overturned  birch,  which  seemed  desirous  of  joining  its  di'oop- 
ing  branches,  the  odor  of  the  swamp,  the  feeling  of  tlie 
crushed  mosquito  upon  my  forehead,  and  her  attentive  gaze 
and  majestic  attitude,  often  presented  themselves  after- 
wards quite  unexpectedly  to  my  imagination. 


VjVTS.  803 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 


ЛУнЕХ  we  returned  home  after  our  walk,  Varenka  did  not 
wish  to  sing  as  she  usually  did  in  the  evening ;  and  I  had  the 
selt'-assurauce  to  set  it  down  to  my  own  account,  fancying 
that  the  cause  was  what  I  had  said  to  her  on  the  bridge. 
The  Nekhliudoffs  did  not  have  supper,  and  dispersed  early  ; 
and  that  dav,  since  Dmitri's  teeth  began  to  ache,  as  Sophia 
Ivanoлчla  had  predicted,  we  went  off  to  his  room  even  earlier 
than  usual.  Supposing  that  I  had  done  all  that  m}'  blue 
collar  and  my  buttons  required  of  me,  and  that  I  had  pleased 
everybody,  I  was  in  an  extremely  amiable,  self-satisfied  frame 
of  mind.  Dmitri,  on  the  contrary-,  in  consequence  of  the 
quarrel  and  his  toothache,  was  silent  and  morose.  He  seat- 
ed himself  at  the  table,  got  out  his  note-books,  his  diary, 
and  the  book  in  which  he  was  accustomed  to  write  down 
every  evening  his  past  and  future  occupations,  and  wrote  in 
them  for  quite  a  long  time,  frowning  incessanth',  and  touch- 
ing his  clieek  with  his  hand. 

'•Oh,  leave  me  in  peace!''  he  shouted  at  the  maid  луЬо 
had  been  sent  by  Sophia  Ivanovna  to  inquire  how  his  teeth 
were,  and  if  he  did  not  want  to  make  himself  a  fomenta- 
tion. After  that,  telling  me  that  my  bed  would  be  ready 
directly,  and  that  he  would  retire  immediately,  he  went  to 
Liubov  vSergieevna. 

"  What  a  pity  that  Varenka  is  not  pretty,  and  particularly 
that  she  is  not  Sonitchka!"  I  meditated,  when  I  was  left 
alone  in  the  room.  "  How  pleasant  it  would  be  to  come  to 
them,  and  offer  her  my  hand,  when  I  1еал'е  the  university  ! 
I  should  say,  '  Princess,  I  am  no  longer  j'oung ;  I  cannot 
love  passionate!}' ;  but  I  shall  always  love  you  like  a  dear 
sister.'  '  I  already  respect  you,'  I  sliould  say  to  her  mother  ; 
'and  as  for  you,  Sophia  Ivanovna,  pray  ])elieve  that  I  esteem 
you  highly.     Then  say  simply  and  plainly,  will  you  be  my 


304  ГО  и  г.  7. 

wife?  '  —  '  Yes  ; '  and  she  will  give  me  her  hand,  and  I  shall 
pix'ss  it,  and  say,  '  IMy  love  is  not  in  words,  bnt  in  deeds.' 
Well,  and  what  if  Dmitri  should  all  at  once  fall  in  love  with 
Liiibotchka?  "  came  into  my  mind.  —  "  for  Liubotehka  is  in 
Icjve  with  him,  —  and  should  wish  to  marry  her?  Then  one  of 
us  would  not  be  able  to  marry.  And  that  would  be  capital. 
Then  this  is  what  1  should  do.  I  should  immediately  perceive 
it.  say  nothing,  but  go  to  Dmitri,  and  say,  '  It  is  in  vain,  my 
friend,  that  we  have  tried  to  keep  secrets  from  each  other 
You  know  that  m}-  love  for  your  sister  will  end  only  with  my 
life  ;  I)ut  I  know  all,  you  have  deprived  me  of  my  best  hope, 
you  ha\^e  renderecT  me  unhappy ;  Init  do  you  know  how 
Nikolai  Irteneff  revenges  himself  for  the  unhappiness  of  his 
whole  life?  Here  is  my  sister  for  you,'  and  1  should  give 
him  Liubotchka's  hand.  He  would  say,  'No,  not  on  any 
terms  !  '  and  I  should  say,  '  Prince  Nekhliudoff,  in  vain  do 
3'ou  endeavor  to  be  more  magnanimous  than  Nikolai  Irteneff. 
There  is  not  a  more  magnanimous  man  in  the  world  than  he.' 
Then  I  should  bow  and  retire.  Dmitri  and  Liubotehka  would 
run  after  me  in  tears,  and  beseech  me  to  accept  their  sacri- 
fice, —  and  I  might  consent  and  be  very  happy  if  I  were  only 
-in  love  with  Varenka."  These  dreams  were  so  agreeable 
that  I  wanted  very  much  to  communicate  them  to  my  friend  ; 
but  in  spite  of  our  mutual  vow  of  frankness,  I  felt  that  for 
some  reason  it  was  phj'sically  impossible  to  say  it. 

Dmitri  returned  from  Liubov  Sergieevna,  with  some  drops 
on  his  tooth  which  she  had  given  him,  in  still  greater  suffer- 
ing, and  consequentl}'  btill  m{^ve  gloomy.  М3'  bed  was  not 
leady  yet ;  and  a  little  boy,  Dmitri's  servant,  came  to  ask 
him  where  I  was  to  sleep. 

"Go  to  the  devil!"  shouted  Dmitri,  stamping  his  foot. 
'' Vaska.  Vaska,  Vaska  !  "  he  cried  as  soon  as  the  boy  was 
gone,  raising  his  voice  at  each  repetition,  —  ''Vaska,  make 
me  up  a  bed  on  the  floor." 

"  No.  it  will  be  better  for  me  to  lie  on  the  floor,"  said  I. 

"  Well,  it's  no  matter :  make  it  up  somewhere,"  went  on 
Dmitri  in  the  same  angry  tone.  "Vaska!  why  don't  you 
spread  it  down?  " 

But  Vaska  evidently  did  not  understand  what  was  wanted 
of  him,  and  stood  motionless. 

"  Well,  what's  the  matter  with  you?  Make  it!  make  it! 
Vaska,  Vaska  !  "  shouted  Dmitri,  suddenly  flying  into  a  kind 
of  lury. 


тоитп.  305 

Bat  Vaska,  still  not  comprehending,  and  becoming  fright- 
ened, did  not  move. 

'^  80  you  have  sworn  to  mur —  to  drive  me  mad?"  and, 
springing  from  his  chair,  Dmitri  flew  at  the  bo}',  and  struck 
several  blows  with  his  fist  upon  the  head  of  Vaska,  who  ran 
headlong  from  the  room.  Halting  at  the  door,  Dmitri  glanced 
at  me  ;  and  the  expression  of  rage  and  cruelty  which  his 
face  had  borne  for  a  moment  changed  into  such  a  gentle, 
shamefaced,  and  affectionatel}-  childish  expression,  that  1  wtss 
sorry  for  him.  But,  much  as  I  wanted  to  turn  away,  I  could 
not  make  up  my  mind  to  do  it.  He  said  nothing  to  me,  but 
paced  the  room  for  a  long  time,  glancing  at  me  from  time  to 
time  with  the  same  look  which  besought  forgiveness,  then  took 
a  note-book  fiom  the  table,  wrotj  something  iu  it,  pulled  off 
his  coat,  folded  it  carefully,  went  to  the  corner  where  the 
images  hung,  crossed  his  large  white  hands  upon  his  breast, 
and  began  to  pray.  He  prayed  so  long,  that  Vaska  had  time 
to  fetch  a  mattress,  and  spread  it  on  the  floor  as  I  directed 
him  in  a  whisper  to  do.  I  undressed,  and  lay  down  upon  the 
bed  thus  prepared  on  the  floor  ;  but  Dmitri  still  continued  to 
pray.  As  1  glanced  at  Dmitri's  somewhat  bent  back,  and 
at  the  soles  of  his  feet,  луЬ1сЬ  were  presented  to  me  in  a  rather 
submissive  way  when  he  prostrated  himself  on  the  earth, 
I  loved  Dmitri  still  more  strongly  than  before,  and  I  kept 
thinking,  ''  Shall  I  or  shall  I  not  tell  him  Avhat  I  have  been 
dreaming  about  our  sisters?"  Having  finished  his  рга_уег, 
Dmitri  lay  down  beside  me  on  the  l)ed  ;  and,  supporting  him- 
self on  his  elbow,  he  looked  at  me  long  and  silently  with  a 
steady  affectionate  gaze.  It  was  evidently  painful  for  him, 
but  he  seemed  to  be  punishing  himself.  I  smiled  as  I  looked 
at  him.      He  smiled  also. 

•'Why  don't  you  tell  me,"  said  he,  "that  I  have  acted 
abominably?    Of  course  you  thought  it  at  once." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  —  although  I  had  been  thinking  of 
something  else,  but  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  had  really  thought 
it,  —  "yes.  it  was  not  nice  at  all:  I  did  not  expect  it  of 
you,"  said  I,  experiencing  a  special  satisfaction  at  the  mo- 
ment in  addi'essing  him  as  thou.  *•  Well,  how  are  your 
teeth?"  I  added. 

"The  pain  has  passed  off.  Ah.  Nikolinka,  my  friend," 
broke  out  Dmitri  so  aff'ectionately,  that  stars  seemed  to  stand 
in  his  sparkling  eyes.  •'  I  know  and  feel  that  1  am  wicked  :  and 
God  sees  how  1  desire  to  be  better,  and  how  1  beseech  Him 


306  YOUTH. 

to  make  me  better.  But  what  am  I  to  do  if  I  liave  such  a 
wretched,  repulsive  character?  wliat  am  I  to  do?  1  try  to 
restrain  myself,  to  reform  myself  ;  but  all  at  once  this  becomes 
impossible,  and  impossible  to  me  alone.  I  need  some  one 
to  sui)port,  to  help  me.  There  is  Liubov  Sergieevua,  she  un- 
derstands me,  and  has  helped  me  a  great  deal  in  this.  I 
know  b}'  my  journal  that  I  have  improved  a  great  deal  during 
the  last  3'ear.  Ah,  Nikolinka,  my  soul !  "  he  continued  with 
peculiar,  unaccustomed  tenderness,  and  a  tone  that  was  al- 
ready quieter  after  this  confession,  "  how  much  the  influence 
of  a  woman  like  her  means  !  М3'  God  !  how  good  it  will  be 
when  I  am  independent  with  another  like  her !  I  am  a  totally 
different  man  with  her." 

And  then  Dmitri  began  to  unfold  to  me  his  plans  for  mar- 
riage, country  life,  and  constant  labor  upon  himself. 

"I  shall  live  in  the, country.  You  will  come  to  rae, 
perhaps;  and  you  will  be  married  to  Sonitchka,"  said  he. 
''  Our  children  will  play  together.  Of  course  this  all  sounds 
ridiculous  and  stupid,  but  it  may  come  to  pass  nevertheless." 

''The  idea!  it  is  extremely  possible,"  said  I,  smiling,  and 
thinking  at  the  same  time  that  it  would  be  much  better  still 
if  1  were  marri-ed  to  his  sister. 

"  I  am  going  to  tell  you  something,  do  you  know?"  said 
he,  after  a  short  silence  :  "  you  are  only  imagining  that  you 
are  in  love  with  Sonitchka,  but  it's  nonsense,  I  can  see  it ; 
and  you  do  not  yet  know  what  the  genuine  feeling  is  like." 

I  made  no  reply,  because  I  almost  agreed  with  him.  We 
remained  silent  for  a  while. 

' '  You  surely  must  have  observed  that  I  have  been  in  an 
abominable  temper  again  to-daj',  and  quarrelled  in  an  ugly 
way  Avith  Varya.  It  was  frightfully  disagreeable  for  me 
afterwards,  especially  because  it  was  before  you.  Although 
she  thinks  of  many  things  in  a  way  she  should  not,  she's  a 
splendid  girl,  and  very  good  луЬеп  j'ou  come  to  know  her 
more  intimatel}'." 

His  change  of  the  conversation  fi'om  the  statement  that  I 
was  not  in  love,  to  praises  of  his  sister,  rejoiced  me  greatly, 
and  made  me  blush  :  nevertheless,  I  said  nothing  to  him  about 
his  sister,  and  we  went  on  talking  of  something  else. 

Thus  we  chatted  away  until  the  second  cock-crow,  and  the 
pale  dawn  had  already  peeped  in  at  the  window,  when  Dmi- 
tri went  to  his  own  bed,  and  extinguished  the  light. 

"  Well,  now  for  sleep,"  said  he. 


YOUTH.  307 

"  Yes,"  I  answered,  "  but  oue  word  more." 

"Well?"  "^ 

"Is  it  good  to  live  in  this  world?  " 

"  It  is  good  to  live  in  this  Avorld,"  he  responded  in  such  a 
voice,  that  it  seemed  to  me  that  even  in  the  dark  I  could  see 
the  expression  of  his  merry,  affectionate  eyes  and  childlike 
smile. 


308  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

IN    THE    COUNTRY. 

The  next  day  Volodya  and  I  set  off  for  the  country,  with 
post-horses.  As  I  went  over  all  my  Moscow  memories  ni 
my  mind  on  the  way,  I  remembered  Sonitchka  VaUikhiiia, 
but  only  in  the  evening,  when  we  had  travelled  five  stages. 
'^Biit  it  is  strange,"  thought  I,  ''that  I  am  in  love,  and 
quite  forgot  it:  1  must  think  of  her."  And  I  did  begin  to 
think  of  her,  as  one  thinks  while  travelling,  incoherently  but 
vividly  ;  and  I  meditated  to  such  a  degree,  that  1  considered 
it  indispensable,  for  some  reason  or  other,  to  api:jear  sad  and 
thoughtful  for  two  days  after  our  arrival  in  the  country, 
before  all  the  household,  and  especially  in  the  presence  of 
Kateuka,  whom  I  regarded  as  a  great  connoisseur  in  matters 
of  this  sort,  and  to  whom  I  gave  a  hint  of  the  condition  in 
which  I  found  my  heart.  But  in  spite  of  all  my  attempts  at 
dissinuilation  lief  ore  others  and  before  myself,  in  spite  of  my 
deliberate  assumption  of  all  the  signs  which  I  had  observed 
in  others  in  an  enamoureil  condition,  in  the  course  of  those 
two  days  I  did  not  constantly  Itear  it  in  mind  that  I  \v:is  i'l 
love,  but  remembered  it  chietly  in  the  evening  ;  and  finally  I 
fell  into  the  new  round  of  country  life  and  ocoui)ations  so 
quickly  that  I  quite  forgot  about  my  love  for  Sonitchka. 

We  arrived  at  Petrovskoe  at  night ;  and  I  was  sleei)ing  so 
soundly  that  I  saw  neither  the  house  nor  the  birch  avenue, 
nor  any  of  the  household,  who  had  already  retired  and  had 
long  been  asleep.  Old  bent  Foka,  barefooted,  and  wrapped 
in  a  kind  of  woman's  wadded  dressing-gown,  with  a  candle 
in  his  hand,  shoved  back  the  door-fastenings  for  us.  He  quiv- 
ered with  joy  on  beholding  us,  kissed  us  on  the  shoulder, 
hastily  gathered  up  his  felt  rug,  and  began  to  dress  himself. 
I  traversed  the  vestibule  and  staircase  without  being  tiior- 
oughly  awake  ;  but  in  the  ante-room  the  lock  on  the  do<n*, 
the  bolt,  the  crooked  boards,  the  clothes-prcbs,  thj  ancient 


YOUTH.  (S6^ 

candlestifk  spotted  with  tallow  as  of  old.  the  shadow  of  the 
cold,  bent,  recently  liiilited  tallow  candle  iu  the  image-lani[), 
tlie  always  dusty  doul)le  window  Avhich  was  never  removed, 
l»ehind  which,  as  I  remembered,  there  grew  a  mountaiu-ash 
tree, — all  this  was  so  familiar,  so  full  of  memories,  so  har- 
monious with  itself,  as  though  united  in  one  thought,  that  I 
suddenly  felt  upon  me  the  caress  of  this  dear  old  house.  The 
question  involuntarih'  presented  itself  to  me,  "How  coiiUl 
лус,  the  house  and  I,  go  on  without  each  other  so  long?  "  and 
I  ran  in  haste  to  see  whether  these  were  the  same  rooms. 
Every  thing  was  the  same,  onh^  every  thing  had  grown  small- 
er, lower.  But  the  house  received  me  joyously  into  its  em- 
brace just  as  I  was  ;  and  .every  floor,  every  window,  every 
step  of  the  stairs,  every  sound,  awakened  in  me  a  world  of 
forms,  feelings,  occurrences  of  the  hapjjy  past,  which  would 
never  return.  We  went  to  the  bedroom  of  our  childhood  :  all 
my  childish  terrors  were  hiding  again  in  the  darkness  of 
the  corners  and  doors.  We  went  into  the  drawing-room  :  the 
same  gentle  motherly  love  was  diffused  over  every  object 
луЫсЬ  was  iu  the  room.  We  went  to  the  hall :  it  seemed  as 
though  boisterous,  careless  childish  mirth  had  lingered  in  this 
apartment,  and  was  onh'  waiting  to  be  revivified.  In  the  bou- 
doir, whither  Foka  led  us  and  where  he  had  made  up  beds  for 
us,  it  seemed  as  if  every  thing  —  the  mirror,  the  screen,  the 
ancient  wooden  image,  every  inequalit}'  of  the  walls  covered 
with  white  i)apcr  —  all  spoke  of  suffering,  of  death,  of  that 
which  would  never  exist  again. 

We  lay  down,  and  Foka  left  us  after  wishing  us  good 
night. 

'■•  3Iamma  died  in  this  room,  surely,"   said  Volodya. 

I  did  not  answer  him,  and  pretended  to  be  asleep.  If 
1  had  said  a  word,  I  should  have  bui'st  out  crying.  When  I 
awoke  the  next  morning,  papa,  not  yet  dressed,  was  sitting 
on  Volodya's  bed,  in  fanciful  sli[)pers  and  dressing-gown, 
chatting  and  laughing  with  him.  He  si)rang  up  from  N'olodya 
Avith  a  merry  bound,  came  up  to  me.  and,  slapi)iug  me  on  the 
back  with  his  large  hand,  he  presented  his  cheek  to  me,  and 
pressed  it  to  my  lips. 

'•  Well,  capital,  thanks,  dii)lomat,"  said  he  wilh  his  own 
peculiar  caress,  gazing  at  me  with  his  small,  twinkling  eyes. 
"  \'olodya  says  that  you  got  tlirougli  wt-ll,  young  ftdlow  : 
that's  glorious.  You're  my  line  littl  >  fellow  wlu'U  you  take 
a  notion  not  to  be  stupid.     Thanks,  my  friend.     We  shall  live 


310  YOUTH. 

л'егу  pleasantly  here  now,  but  wc  shall  go  to  Peterburg  for 
the  winter ;  onl}'  it's  a  pity  that  the  hunting  is  over,  for  I 
might  have  amused  you.  You  can  hunt  Avith  a  gun,  Walcle- 
mar?  there's  any  quantity  of  game,  and  1  will  go  with  30U 
myself  some  da}'.  So,  if  it  be  God's  will,  we  shall  go  to 
Peterburg  for  the  winter  :  you  shall  see  people,  make  connec- 
tions. You  are  grown  up  now,  my  children,  and  I  was  just 
telling  Waldemar  that  you  now  stand  on  the  road,  and  my 
task  is  over :  you  can  walk  alone.  But  if  you  Avant  to  confer 
with  me,  to  ask  advice,  I  am  no  longer  your  daddy,  but  your 
friend  and  comrade,  and  counsellor,  wherever  I  can  be  of 
use,  and  nothing  more.  How  does  that  suit  your  philosophy, 
Koko  ?     Heh  ?  is  it  good  or  bad  ?  heh  ?  ' ' 

Of  course  I  answered  that  it  was  capital,  and  I  really 
thought  it  so.  Papa  had  a  peculiarly  fascinating,  merry, 
happy  expression  that  day  ;  and  these  novel  relations  with 
me,  as  with  an  equal,  a  companion,  made  me  love  him  more 
than  ever. 

"  Now  tell  me,  did  you  call  on  all  our  relatives,  and  on 
the  Ivins?  Did  you  see  the  old  man?  AVhat  did  he  say 
to  you?  "  he  continued  to  interrogate  me.  ''  Did  you  go  to 
see  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch?" 

And  we  chatted  so  long  before  dressing,  that  the  sun  had 
already  begun  to  desert  the  windows  of  the  divan-room  ;  and 
Yakov,  who  луаа  just  exactly  as  old  as  ever,  and  twisted  his 
lingers  behind  his  ))ack  and  spoke  just  the  same  as  ел'ег,  came 
to  our  room,  and  announced  to  papa  that  the  calash  was  ready. 

'•  Where  are  з'ои  going?  "  I  asked  papa. 

"  Ah,  I  had  nearly  forgotten,"  said  papa  with  a  twitch  and 
cough  of  vexation.  '••  I  promised  to  go  to  the  Epifanoffs'  to- 
da}'.  Do  you  remember  the  EpifanoA'a,  la  belle  Flaviande? 
she  used  to  visit  з'оиг  mamma.  The}'  are  л'егу  nice  people," 
and  papa  left  the  room  twitching  his  shoulders  in  embarrass- 
ment, as  it  seemed  to  me. 

Liubotchka  had  come  to  the  door  8ел'е1а1  times  during  our 
chat,  and  inquired,  "Can  1  come  in?"  but  each  time  papa 
shouted  to  her  through  the  door,  that  it  "  was  utterly  impos- 
sible, because  we  were  not  dressed." 

''What's  the  harm?  I've  seen  you  in  your  dressing- 
gown." 

'•  It's  impossible  for  you  to  see  your  brothers  without  their 
riiexpressibles,"  he  shouted  to  her  ;  "  and  if  each  one  of  them 
knocks  on  the  door  to  you,  will  you  be  satisfied?     Knock, 


YOUTH.  311 

aud  it  is  even  improper  for  them  to  sj)eak  to  j'ou  in  such 
neglige." 

"Al),  how  unbearable  yon  are!  At  all  eл•ents,  do  come 
to  the  drawing-room  as  quickly  as  possible.  Mimi  wants  so 
much  to  see  you  !  "  called  Linbotchka  outside  the  door. 

As  soon  as  papa  >vent  away  I  dressed  myself  as  quickly  as 
possible  in  my  student's  coat,  and  went  to  the  drawing-room. 
Volodya,  on  the  contrary,  did  not  hurry  himself,  and  sat  up- 
stairs for  a  long  time,  talking  лvith  Yakov  about  the  places  to 
find  snipe  and  woodcock.  As  I  have  already  said,  tiiere 
was  nothing  in  the  world  which  he  dreaded  so  much  as  senti- 
ment with  his  brother,  his  sister,  or  papa,  as  he  expressed  it ; 
and,  in  avoiding  every  expression  of  feeling,  he  fell  into  the 
other  extreme,  —  coldness,  —  which  often  hurt  the  feelings  of 
people  who  did  not  understand  its  cause.  In  the  ante-room 
I  met  papa,  who  was  on  his  way  to  the  carriage  with  short, 
brisk  ste[)s.  He  had  on  his  fashionable  new  Moscow  coat, 
and  he  was  redolent  of  perfume.  When  he  caught  sight  of 
me,  he  nodded  gayly,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  You  see,  isn't  it 
fine?"  and  again  I  was  struck  by  the  happy  expression  of 
his  eyes,  which  I  had  already  observed  that  morning. 

The  drawing-room  was  the  same  l)right,- lofty  apartment, 
with  the  yellowish  English  grand  piano,  aud  its  great  open 
windows,  through  which  the  green  trees  and  the  yellowish- 
red  paths  of  the  garden  peeped  gayly.  Having  kissed  Mimi 
aud  Linbotchka,  it  suddenly  occurred  to  me  as  1  approached 
Kateuka,  that  it  was  not  proper  to  kiss  her  ;  aud  I  came  to  a 
standstill,  silent  and  blushing.  Kateuka,  who  was  not  at  al 
embarrassed,  offered  me  her  white  hand,  and  congratulateo. 
me  on  ray  entrance  to  the  university.  When  Volodya  entered 
the  room,  the  same  thing  hapjiened  to  him  at  the  sight  of 
Kateuka.  lu  fact,  it  was  hard  to  decide,  after  having  grown 
up  together,  and  having  been  in  the  habit  of  seeing  each 
other  every  day  during  all  that  time,  how  we  ought  to  meet 
now  after  our  first  separation.  Kateuka  blushed  far  more 
deeply  than  all  the  rest  of  us.  A'olodya  suffered  no  em- 
barrassment, but  boAving  slightly  to  her,  he  walked  off  to 
Linbotchka,  with  whom  he  talked  a  little  but  not  seriously ; 
then  he  went  off  somewhere  for  a  solitary  walk. 


312  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

OUR    RELATIONS    TO    THE    GIRLS. 

VoLODYA  had  such  queer  views  about  the  girls,  that  he 
could  interest  himself  in  the  questions  :  were  they  fat?  had 
they  slept  enough?  were  they  properly  dressed?  did  they 
make  mistakes  in  French  which  he  should  be  ashamed  of 
before  strangers  ?  But  he  never  admitted  the  idea  that  they 
could  think  or  feel  any  thing  human,  and  still  less  did  he 
admit  the  idea  that  it  was  possible  to  discuss  any  thing  with 
them.  When  they  chanced  to  have  occasion  to  appeal  to  hira 
with  any  serious  question  (which,  however,  they  already 
endeavored  to  avoid),  if  they  asked  his  opinion  about  a  novel 
or  his  occupations  in  the  university,  he  made  a  face  at  them, 
and  walked  oft'  in  silence,  or  auswered  with  some  mutilated 
French  phrase,  such  as  comme  ci  tri joW^  and  the  like;  or, 
putting  on  a  serious  and  thoughtfully  stupid  face,  he  uttered 
some  word  which  had  no  sense  or  connection  at  all  with  the 
question,  made  his  eyes  dull  all  at  once,  and  said,  a  roll,  or 
they  have  gone  away,  or  cabbage,  or  something  of  that  sort. 
When  I  chanced  to  repeat  to  him  these  words  which  Liubotch- 
ka  or  Katenka  had  reported  to  me,  he  always  said : 

"  Hm  !  so  5'ou  still  discuss  matters  with  them?  Yes,  I  see 
3'ou  are  still  in  a  bad  wa}-." 

And  the  pi'ofouud,  invariable  contempt  which  was  expressed 
in  this  phrase  required  to  be  heard  in  order  to  be  appreciated. 
Volodya  had  been  grown  up  for  two  j'ears  now  ;  he  was  con- 
stantly falling  in  love  with  ел^егу  pretty  woman  that  he  met : 
but  although  he  saw  Katenka  every  day  (she  had  worn  long 
dresses  for  two  years,  and  grew  prettier  ever}'  day),  the  idea 
of  the  possibilit}'  of  falling  in  love  with  her  never  entered 
his  head.  Whether  this  arose  from  the  prosaic  recollections 
of  childhood, — the  ruler,  her  simplicity;  her  cajmees,  were 
still  too  fresh  in  his  memory  ;  or  fi'ora  the  repugnance  which 

'  Coiume  c'est  lies  joli. 


Your  п.  313 

ver}'  young  people  have  for  ever}'  thing  that  belongs  to  their 
own  house  ;  or  from  the  general  liuman  weakness,  which,  on 
meeting  a  good  or  a  very  beautiful  ihing  at  the  beginning  of 
the  road,  passes  by  saying  to  itself,  ''  Eh  !  I  shall  meet 
man}'  such  in  the  course  of  my  life,"  —  at  all  events,  up  to 
this  time  Volodya  had  not  looked  upon  Katenka  as  a  woman. 

Volodya  was  evidently  very  much  bored  all  that  summer. 
His  ennui  proceeded  from  his  scorn  for  us,  wliich,  as  I  have 
said,  he  did  not  attempt  to  hide.  The  expression  of  his  face 
said  constantly,  "  Fu  !  how  tiresome  !  and  there's  nobody  to 
talk  to."  Perhaps  he  would  set  out  on  a  hunt  in  the  morn- 
ing with  his  gun,  or  would  read  a  l)ook  in  his  room,  without 
dressing  himself,  until  dinner.  If  papa  was  not  at  home,  he 
even  brought  his  book  to  the  table,  and  went  on  reading, 
without  exchanging  a  syllable  with  any  of  nis,  which  made  us 
feel  guilty  of  something  or  other  towards  him.  In  the  even- 
ing, too,  he  lav  with  his  feet  on  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room, 
and  slept  with  his  liead  resting  on  his  hand,  or  invented  the 
strangest  nonsense,  which  was  at  times  even  improper,  and 
lied  with  a  serious  face,  which  made  IMimi  grow  angry,  and 
turn  red  in  spots,  while  we  Avere  dying  witli  laughter ;  but  he 
never  condescended  to  talk  seriously  with  any  member  of  our 
family  except  papa,  and,  once  in  a  while,  with  me.  I  quite 
involuntarily  aped  m}'  brother  in  his  views  about  the  girls, 
although  I  was  not  so  much  afraid  of  sentiment  as  he  was, 
and  my  contempt  for  the  girls  was  far  from  being  so  deep  and 
firmly  rooted.  1  even  made  several  attempts  that  summer, 
out  of  ennui,  to  enter  into  closer  relations  with  Liubotchka 
and  Katenka,  and  converse  with  them  ;  but  on  every  occasion 
I  found  such  an  absence  of  the  capacit}'  for  logical  thought, 
and  such  ignorance  of  the  simplest,  most  ordinary  things, 
such  as,  for  example,  what  money  was,  what  was  taught  in 
the  university,  what  war  is,  and  so  on,  and  such  indift'erence 
to  the  explanations  of  all  these  things,  that  these  attempts 
only  served  to  confirm  me  in  my  unfaл'orable  opinion  of 
them. 

I  remember  how,  one  evening,  Liubotchka  was  repeating 
some  intolerably  tiresome  passage  for  the  hundredth  time  on 
the  piano.  Volodya  was  lying  dozing  on  the  sofa  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  muttering  at  intervals  with  a  certain 
malicious  irony,  but  without  addressing  himself  to  any  one 
in  particular,  "Ai !  there  she  pounds  away  ;  she's  a  musician, 
a  Beethoven,  [this  name  he  uttered  with  special  irony],  that's 


314  YOUTH. 

clever,  now  once  more,  thnt's  it,"  and  so  on.  Katenka  and 
I  were  still  at  the  tea-table,  and  1  do  not  remember  how 
Katenka  led  the  conversation  to  her  favorite  topic,  —  love.  I 
was  in  a  mood  to  philosophize,  and  I  began  in  a  lofty  way  to 
define  love  as  the  desire  to  acquire  in  another  that  wliich  you 
had  not  3'ourself,  and  so  forth.  But  Katenka  retorted,  that, 
ou  the  contrary,  it  was  not  love,  if  a  giil  contemplated 
marrying  a  rich  man,  and  that,  in  her  opinion,  property  was 
the  most  worthless  of  all  things,  but  that  the  only  true  love 
was  tliat  which  can  endure  separation  (I  understood  by  this, 
that  she  was  hinting  at  her  love  for  Dubkoif ).  Volodya,  who 
must  have  overheard  our  conversation,  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow,  and  cried  interrogatively,  '•'•Китенка  liitsskikk.^  " 

"•  Oh.  3'our  eternal  nonsense  I  "  said  Katenka. 

"  V  p('ri'srhnitzn?  ''  ^  went  on  Volodya,  emphasizing  each 
vowel.  And  I  could  not  but  think  that  Volodya  was  quite 
right. 

Entirely  separate  from  the  general  qualities  of  intelligence, 
sensibilit3',  and  artistic  feeling,  there  is  a  private  quality 
which  is  more  or  less  deл^eloped  in  various  circles  of  society, 
and  especially  in  families,  which  I  call  under  standing.  The 
essential  point  of  this  quality  consists  in  a  certain  feeling  of 
proportion  which  has  been  agreed  upon,  and  in  an  accepted, 
one-sided  A'iew  of  subjects.  Two  men  of  the  same  circle,  or 
of  the  same  family,  who  possess  this  quality,  can  always 
allow  their  expression  of  feeling  to  reach  a  certain  point, 
Ьеу(лк1  Avhic-h  both  of  them  foresee  the  i)hrase.  At  one  and 
the  same  moment  they  perceive  where  praise  ends  and  irony 
begins,  where  enthusiasm  ends  and  dissinndation  begins; 
while,  with  people  of  another  understanding,  it  may  appear 
quite  otherwise.  For  people  with  one  understanding,  every 
object  which  they  have  in  common  presents  itself  chiefly 
through  its  ridiculous,  its  beautiful,  or  its  foul  side,  in 
order  to  render  more  easy  this  identity  of  comprehension, 
there  arises,  among  people  of  a  certain  cii'cle  or  family,  a 
tongue  of  its  own,  certain  terms  of  speech,  certain  Avords 
even,  which  denote  those  shades  of  meaning  which  do  not 
exist  for  other  people.  In  our  family,  this  understanding  was 
developed  to  the  highest  degree  between  papa  and  us  two 
brothers.  Dubkoff  also  had  fitted  our  little  cn-cle  pretty  well, 
and  u)iderstood ;  but  Dmitri,  although  much  cleverer  than  he, 

'  As  will  be  seen  from  what  follows,  these  words  are  nonsense,  and  make  an 
much  sense  untranslated  as  Ihey  wouid  if  au  arbitrary  meauiug  were  assigned  to 
them. 


YOUTH.  315 

was  stupid  on  this  point.  But  in  no  case  was  tliis  faculty 
developed  to  such  a  pitch  of  refinement  as  between  Volodya 
and  myself,  who  had  grown  up  under  identical  conditions. 
Pa[)a  was  already  far  behind  us,  and  much  that  was  as  clear 
to  us  as  two  times  two  was  incomprehensible  to  him.  For 
instance,  Volodya  and  I  had  agreed,  God  knows  why.  upon 
the  following  words  with  corresponding  meanings  :  Bai.sins 
signified  a  vaiu-glorious  desire  to  show  that  I  had  money  ; 
a  bump  (the  fingers  must  be  joined,  and  the  special  emphasis 
placed  on  two  of  the  consonants  at  the  same  time)  signified 
something  fresh,  healthy,  elegant,  but  not  foppish  ;  a  noun 
employed  in  the  plural  signified  unreasonable  passion  for  the 
object ;  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth.  Moreover,  the  meaning 
depended  on  the  expression  of  countenance,  on  the  conver- 
sation as  a  whole  ;  so  that,  whatever  new  expression  one  of 
us  invented  for  a  new  shade  of  meaning,  the  other  under- 
stood it  exactly  in  that  sense  at  the  first  hint.  The  girls  did 
not  have  our  understanding,  and  this  was  the  chief  cause  of 
our  moral  solitude,  and  of  the  scorn  which  we  felt  for  them. 
Perhaps  they  had  an  understand  hi  r/  of  their  own  ;  but  it 
was  so  unlike  ours,  that,  where  we  beheld  a  phrase,  they  saw 
a  sentiment:  our  irony  was  truth  to  them,  and  so  forth. 
But  I  did  not  understand  at  the  time  tliat  they  were  not  to 
blame  in  this  respect,  and  that  this  lack  of  comprehension 
did  not  ]irevent  them  from  being  very  good  and  clever  girls  ; 
but  I  desi)ised  them.  Having,  moreover,  hit  upon  the  idea 
of  frankness,  and  carrying  the  application  of  it  to  extremes 
in  m}'  own  case,  I  accused  Liubotchka,  with  her  peaceful, 
trusting  nature,  of  secrecy,  because  she  saw  no  necessity  for 
digging  up  and  examining  all  her  thoughts  and  spiritual 
instincts.  For  example,  it  seemed  to  me  all  excessive 
hypoci'isy  when  Liubotchka  made  the  sign  of  the  cross  over 
papa  ever}'  night,  and  when  she  and  Katenka  wept  in  the 
chapel  when  th«.'y  went  to  have  the  mass  for  mamma's  soul, 
and  when  Katenka  sighed  and  rolled  her  eyes  when  she 
plaj'ed  on  the  piano  ;  and  I  asked  myself,  AV'hen  did  they 
learn  to  dissbnulate  thus  like  grown-up  people,  and  why 
were  they  not  ashamed  of  themselves? 


316  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

MY  OCCUPATIONS. 

In  spite  of  this,  I  came  into  nearer  relations  with  our 
young  ladies  that  sunmier  than  in  other  years,  b}'  reason  of 
a  passion  for  music  3JUCI1  had  made  its  apisearance  in  me. 
That  spring,  ayoiing  man,  a  neighbor,  came  to  call  upon  us 
in  the  country,  who  had  no  sooner  entered  the  drawing-room 
tlian  he  began  to  gaze  at  the  piano,  and  to  move  his  chair 
im|)erceptibly  towards  it  as  he  conversed,  among  others, 
with  Mmii  and  Katenka.  Having  discussed  the  weather, 
and  the  pleasures  of  country  life,  he  skilfully  led  the  con- 
versation to  a  tuner,  to  music,  to  the  piano,  and  finally  he 
announced  tliat  he  played  ;  and  very  soon  he  had  executed 
three  waltzes,  while  Liubotchka,  Mimi,  and  Katenka  stood 
around  the  piano  and  looked  at  him.  This  young  man  never 
came  again  ;  but  his  placing  pleased  me  extremely,  and  his 
attitude  at  the  piano,  and  the  way  he  shook  his  hair,  and,  in 
particular,  the  manner  in  which  he  took  octaves  with  his  left 
hand,  swiftly  extending  his  tluunb  and  little  finger  over  the 
si)ace  of  the  octave,  ihen  slowly  drawing  them  away,  and 
again  briskly  extending  them.  This  graceful  gesture,  his 
cnieless  jr'se,  the  way  he  tossed  his  hair,  and  the  attention 
Wiiich  our  ladies  paid  to  his  talent,  inspired  me  with  the  idea 
оГ  playing  on  the  piano.  Having  convinced  myself,  in  con- 
sequence of  this  idea,  that  1  had  talent  and  a  passion  for 
music,  I  undertook  to  learn.  In  this  I'espect,  1  behaved  like 
millions  of  the  male  and  especially  of  the  female  sex,  who 
study  without  a  good  teacher,  without  a  real  л-ocation,  and 
without  the  slightest  comprehension  of  what  art  can  give, 
and  of  how  necessary  it  is  to  apply  to  it  in  order  that  it  may 
furnish  something.  Music,  or  rather  playing  on  the  piano, 
was  for  me  a  means  of  captivating  girls  through  their  feel- 
ings. Witli  the  help  of  Katenka,  avIio  taught  me  my  notes 
and  broke  my  thick  fingers  in  a  little,  in  wdiich  process,  by 


YOUTH.  817 

the  way,  I  consumed  two  months  of  such  zeal  that  I  even 
exercised  m}'  disobedient  fourth  linger  on  mj'  knee  at  dinner 
and  on  my  pilh^w  in  bed,  I  at  once  began  to  play  p/'ftv^s, 
and  played  them,  of  course,  soulfully  {avec  dute),  as  even 
Katenka  confessed,  but  utterly  out  of  time. 

The  choice  of  pieces  was  familiar,  —  waltzes,  galops,  ro- 
mances, arrangements,  and  so  forth,  — all  by  those  pleasing- 
composers  of  which  any  man  i)ossessed  of  a  little  healthy 
taste  will  select  a  little  i)ile  for  3'ou  from  the  heaps  of  very 
beautiful  things  in  the  music-shops,  and  say,  ''•  These  are 
what  you  must  not  play,  because  nothiug  worse,  more  taste- 
less, and  uK^re  senseless  was  ever  written  on  music-paper;" 
and  which  you  find  upon  the  pianoforte  of  every  young  Rus- 
sian lady,  prob.ibly  for  that  ver}'  reason.  We  had,  it  is  true, 
the  unhappy  "•  Sonate  Pathetique,"  and  Beethoven's  sonatas 
in  C-rainor,  which  are  forever  being  murdered  by  young  ladies, 
and  which  Liubotchka  played  in  memory  of  mannna,  and 
other  fine  things,  which  her  Moscow  teacher  had  given  her  ; 
but  there  were  also  compositions  by  this  teacher,  absurd 
marches  and  galops,  Avhich  Liubotchka  played  as  well. 
Katenka  and  1  did  not  like  serious  things,  and  preferred, 
to  every  thing  else,  "  Le  Fou  "  and  the  "  Nightingale," 
which  Katenka  played  in  such  a  manner  that  her  fingers 
were  not  visible,  and  I  already  began  to  play  quite  loudly 
and  connectedly.  I  acquired  the  young  man's  gestuies, 
and  often  mourned  because  there  were  no  strangers  to 
look  on  when  I  was  playing,  liut  Liszt  and  Kalkbrenner 
soon  proved  beyond  my  powers,  and  I  perceived  the  impos- 
sibility of  overtaking  Katenka.  Fancying,  in  consequence 
of  this,  that  classical  music  was  easier,  and  partly  for  the 
sake  of  originality,  1  all  at  once  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
I  liked  learned  German  music,  began  to  go  into  rajitures 
when  Liubotchka  played  the  '^Sonate  Pathetique,"  although, 
to  tell  the  truth,  this  sonata  had  long  ago  excited  my  ex- 
treme disgust.  I  began  to  play  Beethoven  myself,  and  to 
pronounce  it  Beeethoven.  But  through  all  this  muddle  and 
hypocrisy,  as  I  now  recall,  there  was  something  in  the  nature 
of  talent  in  me,  for  music  often  produced  on  me  an  effect 
slifnciently  powerful  to  call  forth  tears,  and  the  things  which 
pleased  me  1  could  manage  to  pick  out  upon  the  piano  with- 
out notes  ;  so  that,  if  any  one  had  then  taught  me  to  look 
upon  music  as  an  end,  as  an  independent  enjoyment,  and 
not  as  a  means  of  fascinating  girls  by   the  swiftness   and 


318  YOUTH. 

sentiment  of  my  execution,  I  might,  perhaps,  have  actually 
become  a  very  respectable  musician. 

The  perusal  of  French  romances,  of  which  Volodya  had 
brought  down  a  great  many,  was  another  of  my  occupations 
during  this  summer.  At  that  time  '•  Monte  Cristo "  and 
various  "  Mysteries  "  had  just  begun  to  make  their  appear- 
ance ;  and  1  buried  myself  in  the  romances  of  Sue,  Dunuis, 
and  Paul  de  Kock.  All  the  most  unnatural  personages  and 
occurrences  were  as  living  for  me  as  reality  ;  and  I  not  only 
did  not  dare  to  suspect  the  author  of  lying,  but  the  author 
himself  did  not  even  exist  for  me,  but  living,  acting  people 
and  adventures  appeai-ed  before  me  out  of  the  printed  book. 
If  1  had  пел'ег  anywhere  met  peoi)le  like  those  I  read  about, 
still  I  did  not  for  a  second  doubt  their  existence. 

I  discovered  in  myself  all  the  passions  which  were  de- 
scribed, and  a  likeness  to  all  the  characters,  and  to  the 
heroes  and  the  villains  of  every  romance,  as  a  sensitive  man 
finds  in  himself  all  the  symptoms  of  all  possible  diseases 
when  he  reads  a  medical  book.  What  pleased  me  in  these 
romances  was  the  artful  thoughts  and  fiery  sentiments,  the 
genuine  characters  :  the  good  man  was  thoroughl}'  good,  the 
bad  man  was  as  thoroughly  bad  :  exacts  as  I  fancied  people 
were  in  my  early  youth.  It  pleased  me  very,  very  much,  that 
this  was  all  in  French,  and  that  I  could  remember  aud  quote,  on 
the  occasion  of  a  noble  deed,  the  magnanimous  words  uttered 
by  the  noble  heroes.  How  many  ditTerent  French  phrases 
I  concocted  with  the  aid  of  those  romances,  for  Kolpikoff  if  I 
should  ever  encounter  him  again,  and  for  her.,  when  I  should 
at  length  meet  her,  and  declare  m}'  love  to  her !  I  prepared 
such  things  to  say  to  them,  that  they  would  Ьал^е  died  on 
hearing  me.  On  the  foundation  of  these  novels  I  even  con- 
structed new  ideals  of  the  moral  worth  which  I  wished  to 
attain  to.  Most  of  all,  I  desired  to  be  ''  noble  "  in  all  my 
deeds  and  behavior  (I  say  noble,  and  not  blagorodnnii^  because 
the  French  word  has  another  meaning,  which  the  Germans 
understood  when  they  adopted  the  word  nobel.,'^  and  did  not 
confound  it  with  ehrlich)  ;  next  to  be  pussionate ;  and  lastl}', 
to  be  what  I  already  had  an  inclination  to  be,  as  comme  il 
fant  as  possible.  I  even  endeavored  to  resemble,  in  my  per- 
sonal appearance  and  habits,  the  heroes  who  possessed  any 
of  these  qualities.     I  remember  that  in  one,  out  of  the  hun- 

'  Kohel  means  noble,  generous.  Ehrlich  siguilies  honest,  honorable,  faithful,  aud 
so  forth. 


YOUTH.  319 

dreds  of  novels  which  I  read  that  summer,  there  was  an 
excessively'  passionate  hero,  witli  thick  e^^ebrows  ;  and  I  so 
much  desired  to  be  like  him  exteruall}^  (1  felt  myself  to  be 
exactly  like  him  morally) ,  that,  as  I  examined  my  eyebrows 
in  the  miiTor,  it  occurred  to  me  to  cut  them  a  little,  in  order 
that  they  might  grow  thicker;  but  when  I  began  to  cut  them 
1  chanced  to  shear  away  more  in  one  place.  I  had  to  trim 
it  down  evenly  ;  and  when  that  was  accomplished  I  looked 
in  the  glass,  and  beheld  myself,  to  my  horror,  without  any 
eyebrow's,  and  consequently  very  ugly  indeed.  HowcA'er,  1 
took  comfort  in  the  hope  that  my  brows  would  soon  grow 
out  thick,  like  the  passionate  man's,  and  was  onl}'  disturbed 
as  to  what  our  family  would  say  when  they  should  see  me 
without  my  eyebrows.  I  got  some  powder  from  Volodya, 
rul>bed  it  on  my  eyebrows,  and  set  fiie  to  it.  Althongh  the 
powder  did  not  flash  up,  I  was  sufficiently  like  a  person  who 
has  been  burned.  No  one  suspected  m}'  trick,  and  my  brows 
really  did  grow  out  much  thicker  after  1  had  forgotten  the 
passionate  man. 


320  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

СОММЕ    IL    FAUT. 

Several  times  already,  in  the  course  of  this  narrative,  T 
have  referred  to  the  idea  corresi)Ouding  to  this  French  head- 
ing ;  and  now  I  feel  the  necessity  of  devoting  a  whole  chapter 
to  this  idea,  which  was  one  of  the  most  false  and  pernicious 
with  which  I  was  inoculated  by  education  and  society. 

The  human  race  may  be  separated  into  man}-  classes,  — 
into  rich  and  poor,  good  and  bad,  soldiers  and  civilians,  into 
clever  people  and  stupid,  and  so  on.  But  every  man,  with- 
out exception,  has  his  own  favorite  principal  subdivisi(Лls 
under  which  he  mechanically  classes  each  new  individual. 
My  chief  and  favorite  subdivision  of  people,  at  the  time  of 
which  I  write,  was  into  people  who  were  comme  il  fant,  and 
peoi^le  who  were  comme  il  ne  faut  pas.  The  second  class 
was  again  sulidivided  into  people  wdio  were  simply  not  comme 
il  f'lut.,  and  the  common  people.  People  who  were  comme  il 
faut,  I  considered  worthy  of  holding  equal  intercourse  with 
me  ;  as  for  the  second  class,  I  pretended  to  despise  them, 
but  in  reality  I  hated  them,  and  cherished  towards  them  a 
certain  sense  of  personal  injury  ;  the  third  did  not  exist  for 
me  —  1  scorned  them  utterW-  3/}/ comme  il  faut  consisted 
lii'st  and  сЫейз?^  in  an  excellent  knowledge  of  the  French 
tongue,  and  a  good  pronunciation  in  particular.  A  man  Avho 
did  not  pronounce  French  well  instantly  awakened  a  feeling 
of  hatred  in  me.  "  ЛУЬу  do  you  want  to  talk  like  us,  when 
you  don't  know,  how?"  I  asked  him  mentally,  with  biting 
iron3\  The  second  condition  of  comme  il  faut  was  long, 
clean,  polished  finger-nails  ;  a  third  was  a  knowledge  of  how- 
to  bow,  dance,  and  converse  ;  a  fourth,  and  very  impoitant 
one,  was  indifference  to  every  thing,  and  the  constant  ex- 
pression of  a  certain  elegant,  scornful  ernmi.  Besides  these, 
1  had  general  indications,  by  means  of  which  I  decided  with- 
out having  spoken  to  a  man,  to  which  class  he  belonged. 


YOUTH.  321 

The  chief  of  these,  besides  the  arransreinent  of  his  room,  his 
ьея1,  Ills  handwriting,  and  his  ecjuipage,  was  his  feet.  The 
ri'hitions  of  his  boots  to  his  trousers  immediately  settled  the 
status  of  the  man  in  ray  eyes.  Boots  Avithout  heels,  with 
pointed  toes,  and  trousers  with  narrow  bottoms,  and  Avithout 
straps,  —  this  was  common;  boots  with  round,  narrow  toes 
aiul  heels,  and  trousers  narrow  below  with  straps  surrounding 
ihe  feet,  or  Avide  with  straps  which  arched  over  the  toes  like 
canopies,  —  this  was  a  man  of  mauvais  getire;  and  so  on. 
It  is  strange  that  this  idea  should  have  so  deeply  inoculated 
me,  who  was  decidedly  disqualified  to  be  comme  il  faut.  But 
perhaps  the  very  reason  that  it  took  such  deep  root  in  me  was 
because  it  cost  me  vast  labor  to  acquire  this  comme  il  faid. 
It  is  fearful  to  recall  how  much  of  my  priceless  time  at  the 
best  period  of  life,  sixteen,  1  wasted  in  the  acquirement  of 
this  quality.  It  all  seemed  to  come  easily  to  all  those  whom 
I  imitated, — Volodya,  Dubkoff,  and  the  greater  part  of  my 
acquaintances.  I  gazed  at  them  with  envy,  and  labored 
secretly  at  the  French  tongue,  at  the  art  of  bowing,  without 
regard  to  the  person  1  bowed  to,  at  conversation,  at  dancing, 
at  cultivating  indilTerence  and  ennui^  at  my  finger-nails.  — 
where  I  cut  my  ttesh  with  the  scissors.  —  and  all  the  while  I 
felt  that  much  labor  yet  remained  before  ]  should  attain  my 
object.  But  as  for  my  room,  my  writing-tal)le,  my  equipage 
— -all  these  I  did  not  in  the  least  know  how  to  arrange  in 
such  a  manner  that  the}'  should  be  comme  il  faut,  although  I 
strove  to  attend  to  it,  in  spite  of  my  repugnance  to  practical 
matters.  But>it  seemed  as  though  these  troubles  all  settled 
tluunselves  excellently  with  every  one  else,  and  as  though 
they  could  not  l)e  otherwise.  I  remember,  once,  after  arduous 
:ui(l  fruitless  labor  over  my  nails,  asking  Dubkoff,  whose 
nails  were  woiderfuUy  fine,  whether  they  had  been  so  long, 
and  how  he  managed  it.  Dubkoff  replied,  ''  I  Ьал^е  never  done 
any  thing,  as  far  ])ack  as  I  can  remember,  to  make  then)  so, 
and  I  don't  understand  how  any  nice  man  can  have  any  other 
kind  of  nails."  This  answer  wounded  me  deeply.  I  did 
not  tlien  know  that  one  of  the  chief  conditions  of  being 
счипие  il  J'unt  is  secrecy  witli  I'cgnrd  to  tlie  labors  with 
which  that  соыте  il  funl  is  ol)tained.  Comme  il  faut  was 
not  only  a  great  merit,  in  my  opinion,  a  very  fine  quality,  a 
perfection  which  I  desired  to  attain,  but  it  was  tlie  indispens- 
able conditioi)  in  life,  Avithout  which  tliere  could  le  neither 
hapi)iness,  nor  glory,  nor  any  thing  good   in   the   401  Id.      1 


322  YOUTH. 

should  not  have  respected  a  renowned  artist,  nor  a  savavt., 
nor  a  benefactor  of  the  human  race,  if  he  had  not  l)een 
comme  il  fiut.  The  man  who  was  comme  il  fdiit  stood  in- 
oomparabl}'  higher  than  the}' ;  he  aUowed  them  the  liberty  of 
painting  pictures,  writing  music  and  books,  of  doing  good  ; 
he  even  praised  them  for  so  doing,  for  why  should  not  good 
be  praised,  in  whatever  it  consisted?  but  he  could  not  stand 
on  one  level  with  them  :  he  was  comme  il  faut,  and  they  were 
not,  and  that  was  enough.  It  even  seems  to  me  that  if  we 
had  had  a  bi'other,  a  mother,  or  a  father  who  was  not  comme 
il  f((ut,  I  should  have  said  it  was  a  misfortune,  but  that  there 
could  be  nothing  in  common  between  them  and  me.  But 
neither  the  loss  of  golden  time,  emph^yed  in  constant  worry 
over  the  observation  of  all  the  conditions  of  comme  il  funt 
which  were  so  difficult  for  me,  which  excluded  every  serious 
interest,  nor  the  hatred  and  contempt  for  nine-tenths  of  the 
human  race,  nor  the  lack  of  attention  to  all  the  fine  deeds 
which  took  place  outside  the  circle  of  the  comme  il  faut,  — 
this  Avas  not  the  chief  harm  which  this  idea  did  me.  The 
chief  harm  consisted  in  the  couAaction  that  comme  il  faut  is  a 
fixed  position  In  society  ;  that  a  man  need  not  exert  himself  to 
become  either  an  official  or  a  cartwright,  a  soldier  or  a  savant, 
if  he  is  comme  il  font;  that,  having  once  attained  this  state, 
he  has  fulfilled  his  vocation,  and  has  even  placed  himself 
above  the  level  of  the  majority  of  mankind. 

At  a  certain  pei'iod  of  adolescence,  after  many  blundei-s 
and  distractions,  every  man,  as  a  rule,  feels  the  necessity 
of  taking  an  active  i)art  in  social  life,  selects  some  branch  of 
industry,  and  devotes  himself  to  it ;  but  this  rarely  hapi)ens 
with  a  man  comme  il  faut.  I  have  known,  and  I  still  know, 
'  many,  very  many  old  people  who  are  proud,  self-confident, 
sharp  in  their  judgments,  who,  if  the  question  were  put  to 
them  in  the  other  world,  "Who  are  you?  What  have  you 
done  there  below?"  would  not  be  able  to  return  any  other 
answer  than,  '■'■  Je  fus  un  homme  tres  comme  il  faut  "  (I  was 
.a  thoroughly  genteel  man). 

This  fate  awaited  me. 


YOUTH.  325 

tratecl  the  thicket,  begin  to  l)um  your  head  ;  j'our  desire  to 
eat  has  long  since  vanished,  and  you  sit  on  in  the  wilderness, 
and  listen  and  look  and  meditate,  and  mechanically  pull  off 
and  swallow  still  more  berries. 

I  generally  Avent  to  the  drawing-room  at  eleven,  usually 
after  tea,  when  the  ladies  were  already  seated  at  their  work. 
Around  the  first  window,  curtained  with  a  blind  of  un- 
bleached linen,  through  a  crevice  of  which  the  brilliant  sim 
casts  such  dazzling,  fiery  circles  on  every  thing  which  comes 
in  its  way  that  it  pains  the  eyes  to  look  at  them,  stands  the 
eml)roidery-frame,  over  whose  white  linen  the  flies  promenade 
peacefully.  At  the  frame  sits  Mimi,  shaking  her  head  inces- 
santl_y,  in  an  angry  manner,  and  moving  from  place  to  place 
to  escape  the  sun,  which,  suddenly  breaking  through  some- 
where or  other,  casts  a  burning  streak  of  light  now  on  her 
hand,  now  on  her  face.  Through  the  other  three  windows  it 
falls,  with  the  shadows  of  the  frames,  in  full,  brilliant, 
square  patches.  Upon  one  of  these,  on  the  unpainted  floor 
of  the  drawing-room,  lies  Milka,  from  ancient  habit,  and 
pricks  up  her  ears  and  watches  the  flies  as  they  walk  about 
over  the  square  of  light.  Katenka  knits  or  reads,  as  she 
sits  on  the  sofa,  and  flourishes  her  white  hands,  which  seem 
transparent  in  the  bright  light,  impatientl}',  or  shakes  her 
head,  with  a  frown,  in  order  to  drive  oft'  the  flies  which  have 
crawled  into  her  thick  golden  locks  and  are  fluttering  there. 
Linbotchka  either  paces  back  and  forth  in  the  room,  with 
her  hands  behind  her,  waiting  until  they  shall  go  into  the 
garden,  or  plays  some  piece  upon  the  piano,  with  ever}'  note 
of  which  I  have  long  been  familiar.  I  seat  myself  some- 
where, and  listen  to  the  music  or  the  reading,  and  wait  until 
1  can  sit  down  to  the  piano  m3'self.  After  dinner  I  occa- 
sionally condescended  to  ride  on  horseback  with  the  girls  (I 
considered  walking  exercise  unsuitable  to  mj^'age  and  posi- 
tion in  the  world)  ;  and  our  excursions,  during  Avhich  1  led 
them  fhi-ough  extraordinary  places  and  галчпез,  were  vei-y 
pleasant.  Sometimes  we  had  adventures,  in  Avhich  I  exhib- 
ited great  In-avery,  and  the  ladies  praised  my  riding  and  my 
daring,  and  regarded  me  as  their  protector.  In  the  evening, 
if  there  are  no  visitors,  after  tea,  which  we  drink  in  the 
shady  veranda,  and  after  a  stroll  with  papa  on  the  business 
of  the  estate,  I  lie  down  in  my  old  place  on  the  A'eranda,  and 
read  and  dream,  as  of  old,  as  I  listen  to  Katenka's  and  Liu- 
botchka'a  music.     (Sometimes  when  I  аш  left  alone  in  tlie 


326  YOUTH. 

drawing-room,  find  Liuhotclika  is  playing  some  ancient  music, 
I  drop  my  book,  aud,  gazing  thi(nigh  the  open  door  of  the 
balcony  at  the  curling,  drooping  boughs  of  the  lofty  beeches, 
upon  which  the  shadows  of  evening  are  already  falling,  and 
at  the  pure  heavens,  in  which,  if  3'ou  gaze  fixedl}',  a  dusty 
yellowish  sjiot  seems  to  appear  all  at  once,  and  vanish  again, 
and  lending  an  ear  to  the  sounds  of  music  from  the  hall,  to 
the  creaking  of  the  gate,  tlie  voices  of  women  and  the  herd 
returning  to  the  A'illage,  1  suddenly  recall  Natalya  Savischna 
with  great  vividness,  aud  mamma,  aud  Karl  Ivauitch,  and 
for  a  moment  1  feel  sad.  But  my  soul  is  so  full  of  life 
and  hope  at  this  period,  that  these  memories  only  brush  me 
with  their  wings,  and  soar  awa}'. 

After  supper,  and  sometimes  after  a  walk  b}'  night  in  the 
garden  with  some  one,  —  1  was  afraid  to  traverse  the  dark 
alleys  alone,  — I  went  off  alone  to  sleep  on  the  floor  of  the 
veranda,  which  afforded  me  great  pleasure,  in  spite  of  the 
millions  of  mosQuitoes  which  devoured  me.  When  the  moon 
was  at  the  full,  I  often  spent  Avhole  nights  seated  on  my 
mattress,  gazing  at  the  lights  and  shadows,  listening  to  the 
stillness  aud  the  noises,  dreaming  of  various  subjects,  espe- 
aially  of  poetic  and  voluptuous  bliss,  which  then  seemed  to 
me  to  be  the  highest  happiness  in  life,  aud  grieving  because, 
U'p  to  this  time,  it  had  been  granted  to  me  to  imagine  it  oidy. 
Sometimes  when  all  have  but  just  dispersed,  and  the  lights 
in  the  drawing-room  have  beeu  transferred  to  the  upper 
chambers,  where  feminine  voices,  and  the  sound  of  windows 
opening  and  shutting,  have  become  audible,  I  betake  myself 
to  the  gallery,  and  pace  it  listenmg  eagerly  to  all  the  sounds 
of  the  house  as  it  hipses  into  sleep.  ISo  long  as  there  is  the 
smallest,  unfounded  hope  of  a  bliss,  even  though  incomi)lete, 
such  as  that  I  dream  of,  I  cannot  calmly  construct  an  ima- 
ginary bliss  f(>r  nn'self. 

At  every  sound  of  naked  feet,  at  every  cough,  sigh,  touch 
given  to  a  window,  or  rustle  of  a  dress,  I  spring  from  my 
bed,  I  hearken  like  a  robber,  I  peer  about,  and  become  agi- 
tated without  any  visible  cause.  But  now  tlie  lights  dis- 
appear in  the  upper  windows  ;  the  sounds  of  footsteps  and 
conversation  are  replaced  by  snores ;  the  night-watchman 
begins  to  tap  upon  his  board ;  the  garden  grows  more 
gloom^',  and  3'et  lirighter,  as  the  streaks  of  red  light  from 
the  windows  disappear  from  it ;  the  last  candle  flits  from  the 
pantry  to  the  ante-room,  throwing  a  strip  of  light  upon  the 


YOUTH.  327 

dewy  garden  ;  and  through  the  window  I  can  see  the  bent 
figure  of  Foka,  on  his  лгау  to  bed,  ckxd  in  a  wrapper,  and 
with  a  candle  in  his  hands.  I  often  took  a  great  and  agi- 
tating delight  in  creeping  over  the  damp  grass,  in  the  black 
shadow  of  the  house,  approaching  the  window  of  the  ante- 
room, and  listening,  as  I  held  my  breath,  to  the  snores  of  the 
l)oy.  the  groans  of  Foka,  who  supposed  that  no  one  could 
hear  him,  and  the  sound  of  his  aged  \'oice  as  he  recited 
prayers  for  a  long,  long  time.  At  length  his  last  candle  was 
extinguished,  the  wukIow  was  slammed  to,  and  I  remained 
quite  alone  ;  and  glanciug  about  on  all  sides,  to  see  whether 
there  was  a  white  woman  anywhere,  beside  the  clumps  of 
shrubbery  or  beside  my  bed,  I  hastened  to  the  A^eranda 
at  a  trot.  And  sometimes  I  lay  on  my  bed  with  my  face  to 
the  garden,  and,  covering  myself  as  much  as  possible  from  the 
mosquitoes  and  bats,  I  gazed  into  the  garden,  listened  to 
the  sounds  of  the  night,  and  dreamed  of  love  and  bliss. 

Then  ever}-  thing  acquired  another  meaning  for  me  ;  and 
the  sight  of  the  ancient  beeches,  as  their  branches  on  one 
side  shone  in  the  light  of  the  moonlit  Ьеал'спз,  on  the  other 
side  casting  1)lack  shadows  over  the  bushes  and  the  road  ;  and 
the  calm,  splendid  gleam  of  the  pond  increasing  like  a  sound  ; 
and  the  moonlit  gleam  of  dewdrops  upon  the  flowers  in  front 
of  the  veranda,  which  threw  their  gi-aceful  shadows  acnjss 
the  gray  beds  ;  and  the  sound  of  the  snipe  beyond  the  pond  ; 
and  the  л'о1се  of  a  man  on  the  highway ;  and  the  quiet, 
almost  inaudible  scraping  of  two  old  beeches  against  each 
other  ;  and  the  hum  of  a  mosquito  over  my  ear  and  beneath 
tlie  coverlet ;  and  the  fall  of  an  apple  which  has  been  caught 
on  the  dry  bough,  upon  the  dry  leaves  ;  and  the  hops  of  the 
frogs  which  sometimes  even  got  so  far  as  the  A'eranda  ste[»s, 
and  shone  rather  mysteriously  in  the  moonlight  with  their 
green  backs.  —  all  this  assumed  a  strange  significance  for 
me,  the  significance  of  a  beauty  too  great,  and  of  an  endless 
happiness.  And  then  she  appeared,  with  a  long  black  braid 
of  hau',  a  swelling  bosom,  alwa^'s  sad  and  very  beautiful, 
with  bare  arms  and  voluptuous  embraces.  She  loved  me, 
and  for  one  moment  of  her  love  I  sacrificed  my  whole  life. 
But  the  moon  rose  higher  and  higher,  brighter  and  brighter 
in  the  sky  ;  the  gorgeous  gleam  of  the  pond,  swelling  like  a 
sound,  became  clearer  and  clearer  ;  the  shadows  grew  blacker 
and  Itlacker,  the  liglit  more  and  more  trans[)arent :  and  as  I 
looked  upon  and  listened  to  it  all,  something  told  me  that  she 


328  YOUTH. 

with  her  bare  arms  and  fiery  embrace  was  far,  very  far  from 
being  the  whole  of  liappiness,  that  love  for  her  was  far,  лчм'у 
far  from  being  all  of  bliss  ;  and  the  more  I  gazed  upon  the 
high,  full  moon,  the  more  and  more  lofty,  the  purer  and 
purer,  the  nearer  and  nearer  to  Him,  to  the  source  of  all 
beauty  and  bliss,  did  true  beauty  and  bliss  seem  to  me  ;  and 
tears  of  an  unsatisfied  but  agitated  joy  rushed  to  my  eyes. 

And  still  I  was  alone,  and  still  it  seemed  to  me  that  this 
mysteriousl\'  magnificent  nature,  the  bright  sphere  of  the  moon 
which  draws  one  to  her,  and  hangs  in  a  lofty  but  uncertain 
spot  in  the  pale  blue  heavens,  and  yet  seems  to  stand  every- 
where as  though  filling  with  itself  all  immeasurable  space, 
and  I,  an  insignificant  worm,  already  stained  with  all  poor, 
petty  earthly  passions,  but  endowed  also  with  a  boundlessly 
compelling  power  of  imagination  and  of  love,  — it  seemed  to 
me  at  such  moments,  as  though  nature  and  the  moon  and  I 
were  all  one  and  the  same. 


YOUTH.  329 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

NEIGHBORS. 

I  HAD  been  veiy  much  surprised,  the  first  dn}'  we  were  in 
the  country,  that  papa  should  call  the  Epifanoffs  fine  people, 
and  still  more  surprised  that  he  should  go  to  their  house. 
There  was  a  lawsuit  of  long  standing  between  us  and  the 
Epifanoffs.  I  had  heard  papa  rage  ол'ег  this  lawsuit  many 
a  time  when  I  was  a  child,  storm  at  the  Epifanoffs,  and  sum- 
mon various  people  to  defend  him  against  them,  as  I  under- 
stood it ;  I  had  heard  Yakov  call  them  our  enemies,  and 
serfs ;^  and  I  remember  how  mamma  requested  that  no  men- 
tion of  these  people  might  be  made  in  her  house  or  in  her 
presence. 

On  these  data  I  had  constructed  for  myself,  in  my  child- 
hood, such  a  fine  and  clear  idea  that  the  Epifanoffs  were  our 
enemies.,  who  were  ready  not  only  to  cut  papa's  throat  or  to 
strangle  him,  but  that  of  his  son  also  if  they  could  catch  him, 
and  that  they  were  black  people  in  the  literq,!  sense  of  the 
word,  that  луЬеп  I  beheld  Avdotya  Vasilievna  Epifanotf, 
la  belle  Flamande.,  waiting  upon  mamma  the  year  she  died, 
it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  could  believe  that  she  was  one  of 
that  family  of  black  people  ;  and  I  still  retained  the  basest 
opiuion  of  this  family.  Although  we  often  met  them  in  the 
course  of  this  summer,  I  continued  to  be  strongh'  prejudiced 
against  the  whole  family.  In  reality,  this  was  what  the 
P>pifanoffs  were.  The  family  consisted  of  the  mother,  a 
widow  of  fifteen  j^ears'  standing,  who  was  still  a  fresh  and 
merr}^  old  lady,  the  beautiful  daugliter  Avdotya  Vasilievna, 
and  a  stuttering  son,  Piotr  ^'asiIievitch,  who  лvas  a  retired 
lieutenant,  and  a  bachelor  of  a  very  serious  character. 

Anna  Dmitrievna  Epifauoff  had  lived  apart  from  her  hus- 
band for  twenty  years  before  his  death,  sometimes  in  Peter- 
burg,  where  she  had  relatives,  but  for  the  most  part  in  her 

^  Tchertiuie  liudi,  black  people. 


330  YOUTH. 

village  of  Muitishcha,  which  was  situated  at  a  distance  of  three 
versts  from  us.  Such  horrors  were  related  in  the  neighbor- 
hood about  her  manner  of  life,  that  Messalina  was  an  inno- 
cent child  in  comparison  with  her.  In  consequence  of  this, 
mamma  requested  that  even  the  name  of  the  EpifanoA'a  might 
not  be  mentioned  in  her  house  ;  bul  speaking  entirely  without 
irony,  it  was  impossible  to  believe  even  a  tenth  part  of  the 
most  malicious  of  all  possible  scandals,  —  the  scandals  of 
neighbors  in  the  counl  ry.  But  when  I  knew  Anna  Dmitrievua, 
although  she  had  in  the  house  a  peasant  business  manager 
named  Mitiuscha.  who  was  always  pomaded  and  curled,  and 
dressed  in  a  coat  after  the  Circassian  fashion,  who  stood 
behind  Anna  Dmitrievua's  chair  at  dinner,  while  she  fre- 
quently invited  her  guests  in  French  in  his  presence  to 
admire  his  handsome  e3'es  and  mouth,  there  was  nothing  of 
the  sort  which  rumor  continued  to  talk  about.  In  fact,  it 
appears  that  for  the  last  ten  years,  from  the  time,  indeed, 
when  Anna  Dmiti'ievna  had  recalled  her  dutiful  son  Petruscha 
from  the  service,  she  had  entirely  changed  her  manner  of 
life. 

Anna  Dmitrievna's  estate  was  small,  a  hundred  souls  in  all, 
and  her  expenses  dni-ing  her  gay  life  were  large,  so  that  ten 
years  before  this,  of  course,  the  mortgages  and  double  mort- 
gages on  her  estate  had  fallen  due,  and  its  sale  by  auction 
was  unavoidable.  Fancying  in  these  extremities  that  the 
trusteeship,  the  inventor}'  of  the  estate,  the  arrival  of  the 
judge,  and  such  like  unpleasantnesses  arose  not  so  much 
from  her  failure  to  pay  the  interest,  as  from  the  fact  that  she 
was  a  woman,  Anna  Dmitrievua  wa-ote  to  her  son,  who  was 
with  his  regiment,  to  come  to  the  rescue  of  his  mother  in  this 
strait. 

Although  Piotr  Vasilievitch  was  doing  so  well  in  the  service 
that  he  hoped  soon  to  be  earning  his  own  bit  of  bread,  he 
gave  up  every  thing,  went  on  the  retired  list,  and  like  a 
respectful  son,  who  considered  it  as  his  first  duty  to  comfort 
his  mother's  old  age  (as  he  wrote  with  perfect  sincerity  in 
his  letters),  came  to  the  village. 

Piotr  Vasilievitch,  in  spite  of  his  homely  face,  his  awk- 
wardness, and  his  stutter,  was  a  man  of  very  firm  principles, 
and  remarkable  practical  sense.  He  kept  possession  of  the 
property  by  means  of  small  loans,  temporizing,  prayers,  and 
promises.  Having  turned  propertj'-owner,  Piotr  Vasilievitch 
donned  his  father's  fur-lined  coat  which  had  been  laid  up  in 


YOUTH.  331 

the  storeroom,  got  rid  of  his  horses  and  carriages,  taught 
visitors  not  to  come  to  Muitishclia,  dug  drains,  increased  the 
arable  land,  cut  down  the  peasants'  allotments,  felled  his 
woods  and  sold  them  in  a  business-like  way,  and  got  b.is 
affairs  into  order.  Piotr  Vasilievitch  took  a  vow,  and  kept 
it,  that,  until  all  the  debts  were  paid,  he  would  wear  no  other 
clothes  than  his  father's  bekescha  (coat),  and  a  canvas  pale- 
tot which  he  made  for  himself,  and  that  he  would  not  ride 
Ш  any  other  way  than  in  a  telega  with  the  peasants'  work- 
horses. He  endeavored  to  impose  this  stoical  manner  of  life 
upon  all  the  family,  in  so  far  as  his  servile  respect  for  his 
mother,  which  he  considered  his  duty,  permitted.  In  the 
drawing-room  he  stammered,  and  conducted  himself  in  the 
most  slavish  manner  towards  his  mother,  fidlilled  all  her 
wishes,  scolded  people  if  they  did  not  do  what  Anna  Dmi- 
trievna  commanded  ;  but  in  his  own  study,  and  in  the  office, 
he  called  every  one  to  strict  account  because  a  duck  had  been 
sent  to  the  table  without  his  orders,  or  because  a  muzhik  had 
been  sent  by  Anna  Dmitrievna  to  inquire  after  some  neigh- 
bor's health,  or  because  the  peasant  gii'ls  had  been  sent  to 
the  woods  for  raspberries,  instead  of  being  at  work  weeding 
the  garden. 

In  the  course  of  three  years,  all  the  debts  had  been  paid, 
and  Piotr  Vasilievitch  returned  from  a  trip  to  JMoscow  in 
new  clothes  and  a  tarantass.  But  in  spite  of  this  flourish- 
ing state  of  affairs,  he  still  retained  the  same  stoical  procliv- 
ities, in  Avhich  he  seemed  to  take  a  glowing  pride  before  his 
олуп  family  and  strangers  ;  and  he  often  said  with  a  stutter, 
"Any  one  who  really  wants  to  see  2iie«will  be  glad  to  see 
me  in  my  tulup,^  and  he  will  also  eat  m}'  cabbage-soup  and 
gruel  —  I  eat  them,"  he  added.  Every  w^ord  and  movement 
expressed  pride  founded  upon  the  consciousness  that  he  had 
sacrificed  himself  for  his  mother,  and  had  redeemed  the  prop- 
ert}',  and  scorn  for  others  because  they  had  done  nothing  of 
the  sort. 

The  characters  of  the  mother  and  daughter  wm-e  totally 
unlike  this,  and  they  differed  from  each  other  in  many  re- 
spects. The  mother  was  one  of  the  most  agreeal)le  and 
cheerful  women  in  society,  and  always  cquabW  good-natured. 
She  really  rejoiced  iu  every  thing  that  was  gay  and  pleasing. 
She  even  possessed,  in  the  higliest  degree,  the  cai)acity  of 
enjoying  the  sight  of  young  people  making  m-rry,  which  is  a 

1  Sheepskin  coat. 


332  YOUTH. 

trait  encountered  only  in  the  most  good-natured  old  people. 
Her  daughter,  Avdotya  Vasilievua,  on  the  contrary,  was  of 
a  serious  character ;  or,  rather,  she  possessed  that  peculiarly 
indifferent,  dreamy  disposition,  luiited  to  liaughtiness  which 
was  utterl}^  without  grounds,  and  which  unmarried  beauties 
generally  possess.  When  she  Avished  to  be  gay,  her  mirth 
proved  rather  strange,  as  though  she  were  laughing  at  herself, 
at  those  with  whom  she  spoke,  or  at  all  the  world,  which  she 
assuredly  did  not  mean  to  do.  I  often  wondered  and  ques- 
tioned myself  as  to  what  she  meant  by  such  phrases  as  these  : 
"  Yes,  I  am  awfully  handsome;  of  course  everybody  is  in 
love  with  me,"  and  so  on.  Anna  Dmitrievna  was  alwa^'s 
active.  She  had  a  passion  for  arranging  the  little  house 
and  garden,  for  flowers,  canaries,  and  pretty  things.  Her 
chambers  and  garden  лvere  not  large  or  luxurious  ;  but  every 
thing  was  so  clean,  so  neatly  arranged,  and  every  thing  bore 
such  a  geueral  imprint  of  that  daintily  light  mirth  \vhieh 
a  pretty  waltz  or  polka  expresses,  that  the  word  toy,  Avhich 
was  often  used  in  commeiKlation  by  her  guests,  was  particu- 
larly suited  to  Anna  Dmitrievna's  tiny  garden  and  apart- 
ments. And  Anna  Dmitrievna  herself  was  a  toy  —  small, 
thin,  with  a  bright  complexion,  and  pretty  little  hands,  al- 
ways merry,  and  always  becomingly  dressed.  Only  the 
rather  excessively  swollen,  dark-lilac  veins  which  were  traced 
upon  her  little  hands,  disturbed  this  general  character. 

Avdotya  Vasilievna,  on  the  contrary,  hardly  ever  did  any 
thing,  and  not  only  was  not  fond  of  busying  herself  over 
flowers  and  dainty  trifles,  but  she  occupied  herself  too  little 
with  herself,  and  alwjiys  ran  off  to  dress  when  visitors  arrived. 
But  when  she  retui'ued  dressed  to  the  room,  she  was  remark- 
ably^ prett}',  with  the  exception  of  the  cold  expression  of  her 
eyes  and  smile,  which  is  characteristic  of  all  very  hand- 
some faces.  Her  strictly  regular  and  very  beautiful  face 
and  her  stately  figure  seemed  to  be  constantly  saving  to 
you,   '^  You  may  look  at  me,  if  yon  please." 

But  notwithstanding  the  vivacious  character  of  the  mother, 
and  the  indifferent,  dreamy  exterior  of  the  daughter,  some- 
thing told  us  that  the  former  had  never  loved  au}^  thing  either 
now  or  in  times  past,  except  what  was  prett}'  and  gay  ;  and 
that  Avdotya  Vasilievna  was  one  of  those  natures  which,  if 
they  once  love,  will  sacritice  their  whole  life  to  the  one  they 
love. 


YOUTH.  333 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

father's  marriage. 

Father  was  forty-eight  years  old  when  he  took  AA'dot}'» 
VasilieA'na  P^pifanova  for  his  second  wife. 

1  fancy  that  when  papa  came  alone,  in  the  spring,  to  the 
country,  with  the  girls,  he  was  in  that  nervously  happy  and 
sympathetic  state  of  mind  in  which  gamblers  usually  are 
when  they  have  ceased  playing  after  large  winnings.  He 
felt  that  much  unexhausted  luck  yet  remained  for  him, 
Avhich,  if  he  did  not  care  to  employ  it  any  longer  on  cards, 
he  might  expend  upon  general  success  in  life.  Moreover,  it 
was  spring  ;  he  was  unexpectedly  in  possession  of  a  good  deal 
of  mone}' ;  he  was  entirel}'  alone,  and  bored.  In  discussing 
matters  with  Yakov,  and  recalling  the  interminable  lawsuit 
with  the  Epifanoffs,  and  the  l^eautiful  Avdotya  Vasilievna, 
whom  he  had  not  seen  for  a  long  time,  I  can  fancy  how  he 
said  to  Yakov,  "  Do  you  know,  Yakov  Kharlamitch,  1  think 
it  would  be  better  to  yield  that  cursed  piece  of  ground  to 
them  than  to  go  on  with  this  suit ;  hey  ?   What  do  you  think  ?  " 

I  can  imagine  how  Yakov's  fingers  twisted  a  negative  be- 
hind his  back  at  such  a  question,  and  how  he  proved  that 
^'  we  have  the  rights  of  that  business,  after  all,  Tiotr  Alex- 
androvitch." 

But  papa  ordered  the  calash  to  be  got  ready,  put  on  his 
fasliionable  olive  coat,  brushed  tlie  remains  of  his  hair, 
S[)riukled  his  handkerchief  Avitli  perfume,  and  in  the  most 
cheei-ful  frame  of  mind,  which  was  inspired  in  him  by  the 
conviction  that  he  was  acting  in  a  lordly  way,  and  chiefly  by 
the  hope  of  seeing  a  pratty  woman,  he  drove  off  to  his 
neighbor's. 

I  only  know  that  papa,  at  his  visit,  did  not  find  Piotr 
Vasilievitch,  who  was  in  the  fields  ;  and  he  passed  an  hour 
or  two  with  the  ladies.  I  can  imagine  how  he  overflowed 
with  amiability,  how  he  charmed  them,  as  he  tapped  the 


334  YOUTH. 

floor  with  his  soft  boots,  whispered,  and  made  slioep's-eyes. 
1  can  imagine,  too,  how  the  merry  little  old  woman  con- 
ceived a  sndden  tender  affection  for  him,  and  how  animated 
her  cold  and  beautiful  daughter  became. 

When  the  maid-servant  ran  panting  to  announce  to  Piotr 
Vasilievitch  that  old  Irteneff  himself  had  come,  I  can  ima- 
gine how  he  answered  angrily,  '••  Well,  what  of  it?  What 
has  he  come  for?"  and  how,  in  consequence  of  this,  he 
returned  home  as  quietly  as  possible,  and  perhaps  even  turn- 
ing in  to  his  study,  put  on  his  dirty  paletot  expressly,  and 
sent  word  to  the  cook  not  to  dare,  under  any  circumstances 
whatever,  to  make  an^-  additions  to  the  dinner,  even  if  the 
ladies  ordered  it. 

J  often  saw  papa  in  Epifanoff's  company  afterwards,  so 
that  1  can  form  a  vivid  idea  of  that  first  meeting.  I  can  im- 
agine how,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  papa  offered  to  terminate 
that  suit  peacefull3',  Piotr  Vasilievitch  was  gloomy  and  angry 
because  he  had  sacrificed  his  career  to  his  mother,  and  papa 
had  done  nothing  of  the  sort,  and  so  did  not  admire  him  in 
the  least ;  and  how  papa,  pretending  not  to  see  this  gloom, 
was  merry  and  playful,  and  treated  him  as  a  wonderful  jester, 
which  at  times  rather  offended  Piotr  Vasilievitch,  though  he 
could  not  help  yielding  to  him  occasionally,  against  his  will. 
Papa,  with  his  proclivity  for  turning  every  thing  into  jest, 
called  Piotr  Vasilievitch  Colonel,  for  some  reason  or  other ; 
and  in  s[)ite  of  the  fact  that  Epifanoff  once  remarked,  in  my 
presence,  reddening  with  A^exatiou,  and  stuttering  even  worse 
than  usual,  that  he  "•  was  not  a  co-co-co-co-lonel,  but  a  lieu- 
lieu-lieu-lieutenant,"  papa  called  him  Colonel  again  five  min- 
utes afterwards.  ^ 

Liubotciika  told  me,  that  before  our  arrival  in  the  village 
he  saw  the  Epifanoffs  every  (\ixy,  and  was  extremely  gay. 
Papa,  with  his  faculty  for  ari'anging  every  thing  in  a  certain 
original,  jesting,  and  at  the  same  time  simple  and  elegant 
manner,  had  got  up  hunting  and  fishing  parties,  and  some 
fireworks,  at  which  the  Epifanoff's  had  been  present.  And 
tilings  would  liave  been  jollier  still,  said  Liubotchka,  if  it 
had  not  been  for  that  intolerable  Piotr  Vasilievitch,  who 
pouted  and  stuttered,  and  upset  every  thing. 

But  that  is  what  I  contrived  to  observe  during  the  time 

1  The  touch  of  probability  neccssaiy  to  allow  Irteneff  to  do  this  without  seeming 
to  intend  a  direct  offence  is  furnished  by  the  similarity  of  the  lirst  syllables  of  the 
words  iu  liussiau  :  pulkocnik  nud  porutchi/c. 


YOUTH.  335 

that  I  saw  papa  with  Dunitchka,  as  mamma  had  called  her. 
Papa  was  coustantly  in  that  hai)p_y  mood  which  had  struck 
me  on  the  day  of  our  arrival.  He  was  so  gay  and  young, 
and  full  of  life  and  happiness,  that  the  beams  of  this  happi- 
ness spread  over  all  about  him,  and  involuntarily  infected 
them  with  the  same  mood.  He  never  went  so  much  as  a  stei) 
apart  from  Avdotya  Л"а81Иеупа  when  she  was  in  the  room, 
and  paid  her  incessantly'  such  sweet  compliments,  that  I  felt 
ashamed  for  him  ;  or  he  sat  gazing  at  her  in  silence,  and 
twitched  his  shoulders  in  a  passionate  and  self-satisfied  sort 
of  way,  and  coughed  ;  and  sometimes  even  whispered  to  her 
smilingly.  All  this  was  done  with  that  expression,  ihixt  jest- 
ing way,  which  Avas  characteristic  of  him  in  the  most  serious 
matters. 

Avdot3'a  Vasilievna  seemed  to  Ьал^е  appropriated  to  herself 
from  papa  the  expression  of  happiness,  which  at  this  period 
beamed  in  her  great  blue  eyes  almost  constantly,  with  the 
exception  of  the  moments  when  such  shyness  took  possession 
of  her,  all  of  a  sudden,  that  it  made  me,  who  was  acquainted 
with  the  feeling,  pained  and  sony  to  look  at  her.  At  such 
moments,  she  visibly  feared  every  glance  and  movement ; 
it  seemed  to  her  as  though  every  one  were  staring  at  her, 
thinking  only  of  her,  and  considered  every  thing  about  her 
improper.  iShe  glanced  timidly  at  all ;  the  color  constantly 
flooded  her  face,  and  retreated  from  it;  and  she  began  to  talk 
loudly  and  daringl}',  uttering  nonsense  for  the  most  part,  and 
slie  was  conscious  of  it,  and  conscious  that  everybody  includ- 
ing papa  was  listening,  and  then  she  blushed  still  more.  But 
in  such  cases,  papa  did  not  even  observe  the  nonsense,  but 
went  on  coughing  as  passionately  as  ever,  and  gazing  at  her 
with  joyous  rai)ture.  I  observed  that,  although  Avdotya's 
fits  of  shyness  came  upon  her  without  an}'  cause,  they  some- 
times immediately  followed  the  mention  of  some  young  and 
beautiful  woman  in  pai)a's  presence.  The  constant  transi- 
tions from  thoughtfulness  to  this  strange,  awkward  gayet}' 
of  hers,  of  which  I  have  already  spoken,  the  repetition  of 
papa's  favorite  words  and  turns  of  speech,  her  way  of  con- 
tinuing with  other  people  discussions  which  had  been  begun 
with  papa,  all  this  would  have  explained  to  me  the  relations 
which  existed  between  papa  and  Avdotya  Vasilievna,  had  the 
person  in  question  been  au}'  one  but  my  own  father,  and  had 
I  been  a  little  older ;  but  I  suspected  nothing,  even  wlieu 
papa,  on  receiving  in  my  presence  a  letter  from  Tiotr  Vabilie- 


336  YOUTH. 

vitch,  was  very  much  put  out,  and  ceased  his  visits  to  the 
Epifanoffs  until  the  end  of  August. 

At  the  end  of  Aug'ust,  papa  again  began  to  visit  our 
neighbors ;  and  on  the  day  before  Volodya  and  I  set  out  for 
Moscow,  he  announced  to  us  that  he  was  going  to  marry 
Avdotya  Vasilievn'i. 


YOUTH.  337 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

НОЛУ    AVE    RECEIVED    THE    NEWS. 

■  Every  one  in  the  house  had  known  the  fact  on  the  day 
before  the  official  announcement,  and  A^arious  verdicts  had 
been  pronounced  on  it.  Mimi  did  not  leave  her  room  all 
day,  and  cried.  Katenka  sat  with  her,  and  only  came  out 
to  dinner,  with  an  injured  expression  of  countenance  whicli 
she  had  evidentl}-  borrowed  froin  her  mother.  Liul)otchka, 
on  the  contrary,  was  very  cheerful,  and  said  at  dinner  that 
she  knew  a  splendid  secret  which  she  would  not  tell  any  one. 

"  There's  nothing  splendid  in  your  secret,"  said  Volodya, 
who  did  not  share  her  satisfaction  :  "  on  the  contrary,  if  you 
were  capable  of  thinking  of  any  thing  serious,  you  would  un- 
derstand that  it  is  л'ег}'  bad."  Liubotchka  looked  at  him 
intently  in  amazement,  and  said  nothing. 

After  dinner,  \"oh)dya  wanted  to  take  me  by  the  arm  ;  but 
fearing  probably  that  this  would  be  too  much  like  tenderness, 
he  merely  touched  me  on  the  elbow,  and  motioned  me  to  the 
hall  with  a  nod. 

"  Do  you  know  the  secret  which  Liubotchka  mentioned?  " 
he  said  to  me,  when  he  had  satislied  himself  that  we  were 
alone. 

Volodya  and  I  rarely  talked  to  each  other  face  to  face  about 
an}'  thing  serious,  so  that  when  it  did  happen,  we  felt  a  kind 
of  mutual  awkwardness,  and  little  bo^s  began  to  dance  in 
our  eyes,  as  Volodya  expressed  it ;  but  now,  in  answer  to  the 
consternation  expressed  in  my  e\cs,  he  continued  to  stare 
me  steadily  and  seriously  in  the  eye  with  an  expression  which 
said,  "  There's  nothing  to  be  а1агт(ч1  about,  but  we're  broth- 
ers all  the  same,  and  nmst  consult  together  upon  a  weighty 
family  matter."     I  understood  him,  and  he  proceeded: 

"  Papa  is  going  to  marry  the  Epifanova,  you  know?  " 

I  nodded,  liecause  I  iiad  already  heard  about  it. 

"  It's  not  nice  at  all,"   went  on  N'olodya. 


338  YOUTH. 

"Why?" 

"Why?"  he  replied  with  A'exation  :  "it's  л'егу  pleasant 
to  have  such  a  stammering  uncle,  a  colonel,  and  all  those  con- 
nections. Yes,  and  she  only  seems  good  now  ;  but  that  proves 
nothing,  and  who  knows  what  she'll  turn  out?  Granted  that 
it  makes  no  difference  to  us,  still  Liubotchka  must  soon  come 
out  in  the  world.  It's  not  very  pleasant  with  such  a  step- 
mother ;  she  even  speaks  French  badly,  and  what  manners 
she  may  give  her  !  She's  a  fish-wife  and  nothing  more  :  sup- 
pose she  is  good,  she's  a  fish-wife  all  the  same,"  concluded 
Volodya,  evidentl}'  very  much  pleased  with  this  appellation 
of  "  fish- wife." 

8ti'ange  as  it  was  to  me  to  hear  Volodya  thus  calmU'  pass 
judgment  on  pai)a's  choice,  it  struck  me  that  he  was  right. 

"  Why  does  papa  marry?  "  I  inquired. 

"It's  a  queer  story;  God  only  knows.  All  I  know  is, 
that  Piotr  Alexandrovitch  pei'suaded  him  to  marry,  and  de- 
manded it ;  that  papa  did  not  wish  to,  and  then  he  took  a 
fancy  to,  out  of  some  idea  of  chivalry  :  it's  a  queer  story. 
I  have  but  just  begun  to  understand  father,"  went  on  Volo- 
dya (his  calling  him  "  father"  instead  of  "  papa"  wounded 
me  deeply)  ;  "that  he  is  a  very  fine  man,  good  and  intelli- 
gent, but  so  light-minded  and  fickle :  it's  amazing !  He 
can't  look  at  a  луотап  with  any  coolness.  Wh3%  you  know 
that  lie  has  never  been  acquainted  with  any  woman,  that  he 
has  not  been  in  love  with  her.  You  know  it's  so  ;  and  even 
wilh  Mimi." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I  tell  you  that  I  found  out  a  while  ago  that  he  was  in 
love  Avitli  Mimi  when  she  was  young,  wrote  her  verses,  and 
there  was  something  between  them.  Mimi  suffers  to  this 
day."     And  Volodya  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  It  can't  be  so  !  "  I  said  in  amazement. 

"  But  the  chief  point,"  continued  Volodya,  becoming 
serious  again,  and  beginning  suddenly  to  speak  in  French, 
"is,  how  agreeable  such  a  marriage  will  be  to  all  our  kin! 
And  she'll  be  sure  to  have  children." 

Volodya's  sensible  view,  and  his  foresight,  startled  me  so 
that  I  did  not  know  what  to  say  in  reply. 

Just  then  Liubotchka  approached  us. 

"  So  you  know?  "  she  asked,  лvith  a  glad  face. 

"Yes,"  said  Volodya;  "but  I  am  surprised,  Liubotchka. 
You  are  no  longer  a  child   iu   swaddlino-olothes  :  how  can 


YOUTH.  339 

3^u   feel   glad   that   papa   is   going   to   marry    a   worthless 
woman?  " 

Liiibotehka  suddenly'  looked  grave,  and  became  thoughtful. 

"  Volodya  !  why  do  you  say  worthless?  How  dare  j'ou 
speak  so  of  Avdotya  Vasilievna?  If  papa  is  going  to  marry 
her.  then  of  course  she  is  not  worthless." 

"Well,  not  worthless;  that  was  only  m}'  way  of  putting 
it :  but  still"  — 

"There's  no  'but  still'  about  it,"  broke  in  Liubotchka, 
with  warmth.  "  1  didn't  say  that  the  young  lady  you  are  in 
love  with  was  worthless.  How  can  you  say  it  about  papa 
and  an  excellent  woman,  even  if  you  are  my  eldest  brother? 
Don't  say  that  to  me  :  you  must  not  sa}'  it." 

"  And  why  can't  one  judge  "  — 

"  Such  a  father  as  ours  must  not  be  judged,"  inter- 
rupted Liubotchka  again.  "Mimi  may  judge,  but  not  you, 
my '  eldest  brother. ' ' 

"  No,  you  understand  nothing  about  it  yet,"  said  Л^olodз'a 
contemptuously.  "  Listen.  Is  it  a  good  thing  that  some 
Epifanova,  Danitclika,  should  take  the  place  of  your  dead 
mother?  " 

Liubotchka  remained  silent  for  a  minute,  and  then  all  at 
once  tears  rose  to  her  eyes. 

"  I  knew  that  you  were  proud,  but  I  did  not  know  that 
З'ои  wei'e  so  wicked."  said  she,  and  left  us. 

"  V  biilkii  / "  ^  said  Volod_va.  pulling  a  gravely  comical  face, 
and  with  troubled  eyes.  "Just  try  to  argue  with  them,"  he 
went  on,  as  though  reproaching  himself  for  having  forgotten 
himself  to  such  a  degree  as  to  make  up  his  mind  to  conde- 
scend to  a  conversation  with  Liubotchka. 

The  weather  was  bad  on  the  following  day,  and  neither 
papa  nor  the  ladies  had  ccme  down  for  their  tea  when  I 
entered  the  drawing-room.  There  had  been  a  cold  autunmal 
rain  during  the  night ;  the  remains  of  the  clouds,  which  had 
emptied  themselves  over  night,  were  still  Hying  through  the 
sky  ;  the  sun,  which  had  already  risen  (piite  high,  shone 
dimly  through  them,  and  was  designated  by  a  bright  circle. 
It  was  windy,  damp,  and  cold.  The  door  was  oi)en  into  the 
garden  ;  pools  of  the  night-rain  were  di-ying  otf  the  pavement 
of  the  terrace,  which  was  black  with  moisture.  The  wind 
was  swinging  the  open  door  l)aek  and  fortli  on  its  hinges  ; 
the  paths  were  damp  and  muddy  ;  the  old  birches,  with  their 

*  Nonsense  iu  the  secret  jargon  explained  in  chap.  xxix. 


340  YOUTH. 

bare  white  boughs,  the  bushes  and  the  grass,  the  nettles,  the 
currants,  the  elder,  with  the  pale  side  of  its  leaves  turned 
out,  struggled  each  on  its  own  spot,  and  seemed  to  want  to 
tear  themselves  from  their  roots  ;  round  yellow  leaves  flew, 
twisting  and  chasing  each  other,  from  the  Hnden-alley,  and, 
as  they  became  wet  through,  spread  themselves  on  the  wet 
road,  and  on  the  damp,  dark-green  aftermath  of  the  meadow. 
My  thoughts  were  occupied  with  my  father's  second  mar- 
riage, from  the  point  of  view  from  which  A'olodj'a  had  looked 
at  it.  The  future  of  ray  sister,  our  future,  and  even  that  of 
my  father,  promised  nothing  good  to  me.  I  was  troubled  by 
the  thought  that  an  outsider,  a  stranger,  and.  most  of  all,  a 
уапид  woman,  who  had  no  right  to  it,  should  all  at  once  take 
the  place,  in  many  respects,  —  of  whom?  She  was  a  simple 
young  lady,  and  she  was  taking  ihe  place  of  my  dead  mother  ! 
1  was  sad.  and  my  father  seemed  to  me  more  and  more  guilty. 
At  that  moment,  I  heard  his  voice  and  Volodya's  talking  in 
the  butler's  pantry.  I  did  not  want  to  see  my  father  just  at 
tliat  moment,  and  I  passed  out  through  the  door;  but  Liu- 
botchka  came  for  me.  and  said  that  papa  was  asking  for  me. 

He  was  standing  in  the  drawing-room,  resting  one  hand 
on  the  piano,  and  gazing  in  ray  direction  impatiently,  and  at 
the  same  time  triumphantly.  That  expression  of  youth  and 
happiness  which  I  had  observed  upon  his  face  during  all  this 
period  was  not  there  now.  He  looked  troiibled.  Volodya 
was  walking  about  the  room  with  a  pipe  in  his  hand.  I 
went  up  to  my  father,  and  said  good-morning  to  him. 

••  Well,  my  friends,"  he  said,  with  decision,  as  he  raised 
his  head,  and  in  that  peculiar,  brisk  tone  in  which  paljjably 
disagreeable  things,  which  it  is  too  late  to  judge,  are  spoken 
of,  'M'ou  know,  i  think,  that  I  am  going  to  marry  Avdotya 
Л^а81Иеупа."  (He  remained  silent  for  a  while.)  "I  never 
wanted  to  marry  after  your  mamma,  but "  —  (he  paused  for 
a  moment)  "but  —  but  it's  evidently  fate.  Dunitchka  is  a 
dear,  kind  girl,  and  no  longer  very  young.  I  hope  you  will 
love  her,  children  ;  and  she  already  loves  you  heartil}-,  and 
she  is  good.  Now,"  he  said,  turning  to  me  and  Volodya, 
and  apparently  making  haste  to  speak,  lest  we  should  suc- 
ceed in  interrupting,  "■  it's  time  for  3'ou  to  leave  here  ;  but  I 
shall  remain  until  the  new  year,  when  I  shall  come  to  IMos- 
cow  "  (again  he  hesitated)  '^  with  my  wife  and  Liubotchka." 
It  pained  me  to  see  my  father  seem  so  timid  and  guilty 
before  us,  and  I  stepped  up  closer  to  him  ;  but  Volodya  con- 


тоитп.  341 

tinued  to  smoke,  and  paced  the  room  with  drooping  head. 
"  80,  ray  friends,  this  is  what  your  old  man  has  devised," 
concluded  papa,  as  he  blushed  and  coughed,  and  pressed 
Volodya's  hand  and  mine.  There  were  tears  in  his  eyes  when 
he  said  it ;  and  I  observed  that  the  hand  which  he  extended 
to  Volodya,  who  was  at  the  other  end  of  the  room  at  the 
moment,  trembled  a  little.  The  sight  of  this  trembling  hand 
impressed  me  painfully,  and  a  strange  thought  occurred  to 
me,  and  touched  me  still  more  :  the  thought  came  to  me 
that  papa  had  served  in  the  year  '12,  and  had  been  a  brave 
officer,  as  was  well  known.  I  retained  his  large,  muscular 
hand,  and  kissed  it.  He  pressed  mine  vigorously ;  and, 
gulping  down  his  tears,  he  siiddenl}-  took  Liubotchka's  black 
head  in  both  hands,  and  began  to  kiss  her  on  the  eyes. 
Volodya  pretended  to  drop  his  pipe  ;  and,  stooping  over,  he 
slyly  wiped  his  eyes  with  his  fist,  and  left  the  room,  making 
an  effort  to  do  so  unobserved. 


342  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XXXVI. 

THE    иЛЧУЕК81ТТ. 

The  wedding  was  to  take  place  in  two  weeks  ;  but  our 
lectui'es  had  begim,  and  Volodya  and  I  went  back  to  Moscow 
at  the  beginning  of  September.  The  Nekhliudoffs  had  also 
returned  from  the  country-.  Dmitri  (we  had  promised  when 
we  parted  to  write  to  each  other,  and  of  course  we  had  not 
done  so  a  single  time)  immediately  came  to  me,  and  we 
decided  that,  on  the  following  day,  he  should  take  me  to  the 
univ.ersity  for  my  first  lecture. 

i     It  was  a  brilliant,  sunny  day. 

\  As  soon  as  I  entered  the  auditorium,  I  felt  that  my  per- 
sonality disappeared  in  this  throng  of  gay  young  fellows 
which  undulated  noisil}'  through  all  the  doors  and  corridors 
in  the  brilliant  sunlight.  The  sensation  of  knowing  that  I 
was  a  member  of  this  large  compau}'  was  very  pleasant. 
But  very  few  among  all  these  individuals  were  known  to  me, 
and  the  acquaintance  was  limited  to  a  nod  of  the  head,  and 
tlie  words,  "■  How  are  you,  Irteneff?"  But,  all  around  me, 
they  were  shaking  hands  with  each  other  and  chatting,  — 
words  of  friendship,  smiles,  good-will,  jests,  showered  from 
all  quaiters.  Everywheie  I  was  conscious  of  the  bond  which 
united  all  this  youthful  company,  and  I  felt  sadly  that  this 
bond  had  missed  me  in  some  way.  But  this  was  ovAy  a 
momentary  impression.  In  consequence  of  this  and  of  the 
vexation  thereby  engendered,  on  the  contrary,  I  even  dis- 
covered л'ег}^  speedily  that  it  was  a  very  good  thing  that  I 
did  not  belong  to  this  outre  society ;  that  I  must  have  my 
own  little  circle  of  nice  people  ;  and  I  seated  myself  on  the 
third  bench,  where  sat  Count  В.,  Baron  Z.,  Prince  P.,  lyiu, 
and  other  gentlemen  of  that  class,  of  луЬош  I  knew  only 
Iviu  and  the  Count.  I  set  about  observing  all  that  went  on 
around  me.  SemenofT,  with  his  gray,  rumpled  hair  and  his 
white  teeth,  and  with  his  coat  unbuttoned,  sat  not  far  from 


YOUTH.  343 

me,  propping  himself  np  on  his  elbows,  and  gnawing  at  a 
pen.  The  gymnasist,  who  had  stood  first  in  the  examina- 
tion, was  sitting  npon  the  first  bench,  with  his  neck  still 
bonnd  up  in  the  black  neckcloth,  and  placing  with  a  silver 
watch-key  upon  his  satin  vest.  Ikonin,  who  had  got  into 
the  universit}^,  was  seated  on  the  highest  bench,  in  blue 
trousers  with  spring  liottoms,  laughing  and  shouting  that  he 
was  on  Parnassus,  llinka,  who,  to  my  amazement,  saluted 
me  not  only  coldl}',  but  even  scornfully,  as  if  desirous  of 
reminding  me  that  we  were  all  equal  here,  seated  himself  in 
front  of  me,  and,  putting  up  his  thin  legs  upon  the  bench 
in  a  particularly  free  and  easy  way  (for  my  benefit,  as  it 
seemed  to  me),  chatted  with  another  student,  and  glanced  at 
me  now  and  then. 

The  Ivin  part}'  beside  .me  conversed  in  French.  These 
gentlemen  seemed  to  me  frightfully  stupid.  Every  word  of 
their  conversation  which  I  overheard  not  onlj'  seemed  to  me 
senseless  but  incorrect,  simply  not  French  at  all.  (''  Ce 
n' est  pas  frangais^"  1  said  to  myself  in  my  own  mind)  ;  and 
the  attitudes,  speeches,  and  behavior  of  Semenott,  llinka, 
and  others,  seemed  to  me  ignoble,  ungentlemanly,  not 
''  comme  il  faut." 

I  did  not  belong  to  any  company  ;  and  conscious  of  my 
isolation,  and  my  unfitness  for  making  approaches,  I  became 
angry.  One  student  on  the  bench  in  front  of  me  was  biting 
his  nails,  which  were  all  red  with  hangnails  ;  and  this  seemed 
so  revolting  to  me  that  I  even  moved  my  seat  farther  away 
from  him.  But  in  my  inmost  soul  I  remember  that  this  first 
day  was  a  very  doleful  one  for  me. 

When  the  professor  entered,  and  all  ])egan  to  rustle  about, 
and  then  became  silent,  I  remember  that  I  extended  my 
satirical  view  of  things  to  the  professor,  and  I  was  surprised 
that  the  professor  should  begin  his  lecture  with  an  intro- 
ductory phrase  which  had  no  sense,  accoi'ding  to  my  oi>inion. 
I  wanted  the  lecture  to  begin  at  the  end,  and  to  be  so  wise 
that  nothing  could  be  cut  out  nor  a  single  word  added  to  it. 
Having  been  undeceived  in  this  resi)ect,  1  innnediately 
sketched  eighteen  profiles,  joined  together  in  a  circle  like  a 
wreath,  under  the  heading,  '^  First  Lecture,"  inscribed  in 
the  handsomely  bonnd  note-book  which  I  had  brought  with 
me,  and  only  moved  my  hand  across  the  paper  now  and  then 
so  that  the  professor  (who,  I  was  convinced,  was  paying  a 
great  deal  of  attention  to  me)  might  think  that  I  was  writing. 


344  YOUTH. 

Having  decided,  during  this  same  lecture,  that  it  was  not 
necessary  to  write  down  every  thing  that  every  professor 
said,  and  that  it  would  even  be  stupid  to  do  so,  1  kept  to 
that  rule  during  the  whole  of  my  course. 

At  the  succeeding  lectures  I  did  not  feel  my  isolation  so 
strongly ;  I  made  many  acquaintances,  shook  hands  and 
chatted  :  but  for  some  reason  or  other  no  real  union  took 
place  between  me  and  my  comrades,  and  it  still  frequently 
happened  that  I  was  sad,  and  that  1  dissimulated.  I  could 
not  join  the  company  of  Ivin  and  the  aristocrats,  as  they 
were  called,  because,  as  I  now  remember,  I  was  rough  and 
savage  with  them,  and  only  bowed  to  them  when  they  bowed 
to  me  ;  and  they  evidently  had  very  little  need  of  m\'  ac- 
quaintance. But  this  took  place  for  a  very  different  reason 
witli  tlie  majorit^^  As  soon  as  I  was  conscious  that  a  com- 
rade was  beginning  to  be  favorably  inclined  towards  me,  I 
immediately  gave  him  to  understand  that  I  dined  at  Prince 
Ivan  Ivanitch's,  and  that  I  had  a  drozhkз^  All  this  I  said 
simply  for  the  sake  of  showing  myself  off  in  a  more  favor- 
able light,  and  in  order  that  my  comrade  might  love  me  all 
the  more  ;  but  in  almost  every  instance,  on  the  contrary,  to 
my  amazement,  my  comrade  suddenly  became  proud  and 
cold  towards  me  in  consequence  of  the  news  of  m}'  relation- 
ship with  Prince  Ivan. 

AVe  had  among  us  a  student  maintained  at  the  expense  of 
the  crown,  Operoff,  a  modest,  extremel}^  capable,  and  zeal- 
ous young  man,  who  always  gave  his  hand  to  every  one  like 
a  board,  without  bending  his  lingers  or  making  any  move- 
ment with  it,  so  that  the  jesters  among  his  comrades  some- 
times shook  hands  with  him  in  the  same  way,  and  called  it 
shaking  hands  ''like  a  board."  I  almost  always  sat  beside 
him,  and  we  frequently  conversed.  Operoff  pleased  me  par- 
ticularly by  the  free  opinions  to  which  he  gave  utterance, 
about  the  professors.  He  defined,  in  a  very  clear  and  cate- 
gorical manner,  the  merits  and  defects  of  each  professor's 
instruction  ;  and  he  even  ridiculed  them  sometimes,  which 
produced  a  particularly  strange  and  startling  effect  upon  me, 
as  it  came  from  his  very  small  mouth  in  his  quiet  voice. 
Nevertheless,  he  carefully  wrote  down  all  the  lectures,  with- 
out exception,  in  his  minute  hand.  AVe  had  begun  to  make 
friends,  we  had  decided  to  prepare  our  lessons  together,  and 
his  small,  gray,  short-sighted  eyes  had  already  begun  to  tui'n 
to  me  with  pleasure,  луЬеп  I  went  and  seated  myself  beside 


YOUTH.  345 

him  in  my  own  place.  But  I  found  it  necessary  to  explain 
to  him  once,  in  tiie  course  of  conversation,  that  when  my 
mother  was  dying  she  had  begged  my  father  not  to  send  us 
to  any  institutions  supported  bj'  the  crown,  and  that  all  crown 
scholars,  though  the}'  might  be  very  learned,  were  not  at  all 
the  thing  for  me  :  "  Ce  ne  sont  pas  des  gens  comme  il  f<(ut," 
"•  1Ъез'  are  not  genteel,"  said  I,  stammering,  and  conscious 
that  1  blushed  for  some  reason  or  other.  Operotf  said  noth- 
ing to  me  ;  but  at  succeeding  lectures  he  did  not  greet  me  first, 
did  not  give  me  his  board,  did  not  address  me,  and  when  I 
seated  myself  in  my  place  he  bent  his  head  sideways  on  his 
finger  away  from  the  books,  and  pretended  that  he  was  not 
looking  on.  I  was  surprised  atOperoff's  causeless  coldness. 
But  I  considered  it  improper  for  a  j'oung  man  of  good  birth 
to  coax  the  crown  student  Operoff;  and  I  left  him  in  peace, 
although  his  coolness  grieved  me,  I  must  confess.  Once  I 
arrived  earlier  than  he,  and  as  the  lecture  was  by  a  favorite 
professor,  and  the  students  who  were  not  in  the  habit  of 
attending  lectures  had  flocked  to  it,  and  all  the  seats  were 
occupied,  I  sat  down  in  Operoff' s  place,  laid  my  note-boolcs 
on  the  desk,  and  went  out.  On  my  return  to  the  auditorium 
I  was  surprised  to  find  ni}-  note-books  removed  to  the  rear 
bench,  and  Operoff  seated  in  his  own  place.  I  remarked  to 
him  that  I  had  laid  my  books  there. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  retorted,  suddenly  flashing  up,  and 
not  glancing  at  me. 

"I  tell  зюи  that  I  placed  m}'  books  there,"  said,  I  pur- 
posely beginning  to  get  heated,  and  tliinking  to  frighten  him 
with  my  boldness.  "Everybody  saw  it,"  I  added,  glancing 
round  at  the  students  ;  but  although  many  of  them  looked  at 
me  with  curiosity,  no  one  replied. 

"  Places  are  not  purchased  here  ;  the  one  who  comes  first 
takes  his  seat,"  said  Operoff,  settling  himself  angrih'  in  his 
place,  and  casting  a  fleeting  and  agitated  glance  upon  me. 

''  That  means  tliat  you  are  ill-bred,"  said  I. 

It  seemed  as  though  Operoff"  muttered  something  ;  it  ел'сп 
seemed  as  though  he  muttered  that  I  was  "  a  stupid  little 
boy,"  but  I  certainly  did  not  hear  it.  And  what  would  have 
been  the  good  if  I  had  heard  it?  should  v,e  revile  each  other 
like  rustic  louts?  (I  was  very  fond  of  the  word  manant, 
and  it  served  me  as  an  answer  and  a  solution  in  many  a  com- 
plicated affair.)  Perhaps  I  might  have  said  something  more  ; 
but  just  then  the  door  slammed,  and  the  professor,  in  his 


346  '  YOUTTL 

blue    frock-coat,    entered   his   desk    with   a   scrape    of    his 
foot. 

However,  when  I  needed  the  note-books,  before  the  exam- 
inations, OperotT,  remembering  his  promise,  offered  me  his, 
and  invited  me  to  study  them  with  him. 


YOUTH.  347 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

AFFAIRS    OF    THE    HEART. 

Affairs  of  the  heart  engrossed  my  attention  a  good  deal 
in  the  course  of  the  winter.  I  was  in  love  three  times.  Once 
I  fell  passionately  in  1ол'е  with  a  very  plump  lady  who  rode 
in  the  Freytag  riding-school,  in  consequence  of  which  I  went 
to  the  school  every  Tuesday  and  Friday  —  the  days  on  which 
she  rode  —  in  order  to  gaze  at  her ;  but  on  every  occasion  I 
was  feo  much  afraid  that  she  would  see  me,  and  for  that 
reason  I  always  stood  so  far  away  from  her,  and  fled  so 
precipitately  from  the  place  where  slie  had  to  pass  through, 
and  turned  aside  so  negligently  when  she  glanced  in  my  di- 
rection, tliat  I  did  not  even  get  a  good  look  at  her  face,  and 
to  this  day  I  do  not  know  whether  she  was  actually  pretty 
or  not. 

Dubkoff,  who  was  acquainted  with  this  lady,  once  caught 
me  at  the  school  hiding  behind  a  footman,  and  the  fur  cloaks 
which  he  was  carrying;  and  having  learned  of  my  passion 
from  Dmitri,  he  so  friglitened  me  with  a  proposal  to  intro- 
duce me  to  this  amazon,  that  I  fled  lieadlong  from  the  place  ; 
and  the  very  idea  that  he  had  told  her  about  me  prevented 
my  ever  daring  to  enter  the  school  again,  even  as  fai-  as  tlie 
lackeys,  from  the  fear  of  meeting  her. 

When  I  was  in  love  with  strangers,  and  especially  with 
married  women,  I  was  overwhelmed  with  a  shyness  which  was 
a  thousand  times  more  powerful  than  that  which  I  had  expe- 
rienced in  .Sonitchka's  case.  I  feared,  more  than  any  thing 
else  in  the  world,  that  the  object  of  my  love  would  discover 
it,  and  even  my  existence.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if  she  heaid 
of  the  sentiments  which  I  entertained  towards  her,  it  would 
be  such  an  insult  to  her  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  for- 
give me.  And,  in  fact,  if  that  amazon  had  known  in  detail 
how,  when  I  peeped  at  her  from  l)ehind  the  lackeys,  I  medi- 
tated seizing  her,  and  carrying  her  off  to  the  country,  and 


/ 


348  YOUTH. 

how  I  was  going  to  Iwe  there  with  her,  and  what  I  was  going 
to  do,  she  might  perhaps  with  justice  liave  felt  л^егу  much 
insulted.  But  I  could  not  clearly  imagine  tliat  if  she  knew 
me  she  would  not  also  instantly  know  all  my  thoughts,  and 
that  therefore  there  was  nothing  disgraceful  in  simply  making 
her  acquaintance. 

I  fell  in  love  again  with  Sonitchka  when  I  saw  her  with 
my  sister.  My  second  love  for  her  had  passed  away  long 
ago ;  but  I  fell  in  love  for  the  third  time,  because  Liu- 
botchka  gave  me  a  volume  of  verses  which  Sonitchka  had 
copied,  in  which  many  gloomily  amorous  passages  from 
Lermoutoff's  "Demon"  were  underlined  in  red  ink,  and 
had  flowers  laid  in  to  mark  them.  Recalling  how  Volodya 
had  kissed  his  lady-love's  little  purse  the  year  before,  I  tried 
to  do  the  same  ;  and  in  fact,  when,  alone  in  my  room  in 
the  evening,  I  fell  into  reveries,  and  pressed  my  lips  to  the 
flowers  as  I  gazed  upon  them,  I  was  conscious  of  a  certain 
agreeably  tearful  sentiment,  and  was  in  love  again,  or  at 
least  fancied  I  was,  for  several  days. 

And,  finally,  I  fell  in  love  for  the  third  time  that  winter, 
with  the  young  lady  with  whom  Volodya  was  in  love,  and 
who  visited  at  our  house.  As  I  now  recall  that  young  lady, 
there  was  nothing  pretty  about  her,  and  nothing  of  that  par- 
ticular beauty  which  generally  pleased  me.  She  was  the 
daughter  of  a  well-known  intellectual  and  learned  lady  of 
INIoscow ;  she  was  small,  thin,  with  long  blonde  curls  of 
English  fashion,  and  a  transparent  profile.  Ever^-bod}'  said 
that  this  young  lady  was  more  clever  and  learned  than  her 
mother  ;  but  I  could  form  no  judgment  whatever  on  this 
point,  for,  feeling  a  kind  of  passion-fraught  terror  at  the 
thought  of  her  cleverness  and  learning.  I  only  spoke  to  her 
once,  and  that  with  inexpressible  trepidation.  But  the 
ecstasy  of  Volodya,  who  was  never  restrained  by  the  presence 
of  others  in  the  expression  of  his  raptures,  was  communi- 
cated to  me  with  such  force  that  I  fell  passionately  in  love 
with  the  young  woman.  As  I  felt  that  the  news  that  two 
brothers  were  in  love  with  the  same  young  woman  would  not 
be  agreeable  to  Volod}^^,  I  did  not  mention  my  love  to  him. 
But,  on  the  contrary,  that  which  afforded  me  the  greatest 
satisfaction  in  this  sentiment  was  that  our  love  was  so 
pure,  that,  although  its  object  was  one  and  the  same  charm- 
ing being,  we  should  remain  friends,  and  ready,  should  the 
emergency  occur,  to  sacrifice  ourselves  for  each  other.     II 


YOUTH.  349 

appefired,  however,  with  regard  to  the  readiness  for  sacrifice, 
that  Volodya  did  not  sliare  my  feeling  at  all ;  for  he  was  so 
passionatel}'  enamoured,  that  he  wanted  to  slap  a  genuine 
di[)lomat's  face,  and  challenge  him  to  a  duel,  because  he  was 
to  marry  her,  as  it  was  said.  It  was  very  agreeable  to  me 
to  sacrifice  my  feelings,  probably  because  it  cost  me  no 
effort,  so  that  I  only  spoke  to  the  young  lady  once,  and  that 
in  a  fantastic  kind  of  way,  about  the  worth  of  scientific 
music  ;  and  my  love  passed  away  on  the  following  vv^eek,  as  I 
made  no  endeavor  to  cherish  it. 


S50  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE    AVORLD. 

The  worldl}'  pleasures  to  which  I  had  dreamed  of  devoting 
m3'self  when  I  entered  the  university,  in  imitation  of  my  elder 
brother,  quite  disenchanted  me  during  the  winter.  VolocWa 
danced  a  great  deal,  papa  also  went  to  balls  with  his  young 
wife  ;  but  they  must  have  considered  me  still  too  youthful  or 
unfitted  for  such  pleasures,  and  no  one  introduced  me  in 
those  houses  when  balls  were  given.  In  spite  of  my  promise 
of  frankness  to  Dmitri,  I  did  not  speak  to  any  one,  even  to 
him,  of  my  desire  to  go  to  balls,  and  of  how  it  pained  and 
vexed  me  that  I  was  forgotten,  and  evidentl}^  regarded  as  a 
philosopher,  which  I  pretended  to  be  in  consequence. 

But  in  the  course  of  the  winter.  Princess  Kornakova  had 
an  evening  party.  She  invited  all  of  us  herself,  and  me 
among  the  rest;  and  I  was  to  go  to  a  ball  for  the  first  time. 
Voloclya  came  to  my  room  before  he  set  out.  and  wanted  to 
see  how  I  was  dressed.  This  proceeding  on  his  part  greatly 
sui'prised  and  abashed  me.  It  seemed  to  me  that  the  desire 
to  be  well  dressed  was  very  disgraceful,  and  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  conceal  it ;  he,-  on  tlie  other  hand,  considered  this 
desire  natural  and  indispensable  to  such  a  degree,  that  he 
said  ver}'  frankly  that  he  was  afraid  I  should  do  myself  dis- 
credit. He  ordered  me  to  be  sure  to  don  varnished  shoes, 
and  was  struck  with  horror  when  I  wanted  to  put  on  chamois- 
leather  gloves,  arranged  my  watch  for  me  in  a  particular  wa}', 
and  carried  me  off  to  the  hair-dresser's  on  the  Kuznetzky 
bridge.  They  curled  my  hair :  Volodya  stepped  off,  and 
viewed  me  from  a  distance. 

"There,  that's  good,  but  can't  3'ou  flatten  down  the  hair 
where  it  parts  on  the  crown?"  he  said,  turning  to  the  hair- 
dresser. 

But  in  spite  of  all  M.  Charles's  anointing  of  my  tuft  with 
some  gummy  essence,  it  stood  up  the  same  as  ever  when  I 


YOUTH.  351 

put  on  my  hat ;  and  altogether  niy  appearance  when  curled 
seemed  to  me  much  uglier  even  than  before.  My  only  salva- 
tion was  an  affectation  of  negligence.  Only  in  this  way  was 
my  exterior  like  any  thing  whatever. 

Volodya,  it  appears,  was  of  the  same  opinion,  for  he 
begged  me  to  get  rid  of  the  curls ;  and  when  I  had  done  this, 
and  still  did  not  look  well,  he  did  not  glance  at  me  again,  and 
was  silent  and  gloomy  all  the  way  to  the  Korna'.ioffs'  house. 

1  entered  the  Kornakoffs'  apartments  boldly  with  Volodya  ; 
but  when  the  Princess  invited  me  to  dance,  and  I  said,  for 
some  reason  or  other,  that  I  did  not  dance,  in  spite  of  the 
fact  that  I  had  come  with  the  sole  idea  of  dancing  a  very 
great  deal,  I  grew  timid  ;  and  when  I  was  left  alone  with 
people  whom  I  did  not  know,  I  lapsed  into  my  ordinary  in- 
surmountable and  ever-increasing  shyness.  I  stood  dumb  in 
one  place  the  entire  evening. 

During  a  waltz,  one  of  the  Princesses  came  up  to  me, 
and,  with  the  official  amiability  which  was  common  to  the 
entire  family,  asked  me  why  I  was  not  dancing?  I  remember 
how  shy  I  grew  at  this  question,  but  how  at  the  same  time, 
and  quite  involuntarily  so  far  as  I  was  concerned,  a  self- 
satistied  smile  spread  over  my  countenance,  and  I  began  to 
utter  such  nonsense  in  pompous  French  full  of  parentheses, 
that  it  makes  me  ashamed  to  rememlier  it  now  after  the  lapse 
of  ten  years.  The  music  must  have  thus  acted  upon  ine,  ex- 
citing my  nerves,  and  drowning,"  as  I  supposed,  the  not  л'сгу 
intelligible  portion  of  my  speech.  I  said  something  about 
the  highest  society,  about  the  frivolity  of  men  and  women  ; 
and  at  last  I  got  so  entangled  that  I  came  to  a  standstill  in 
the  middle  of  a  word  in  some  sentence  or  other,  which  there 
was  no  possibility  of  completing. 

Even  the  Princess,  who  was  worldly  by  nature,  became^ 
confused,  and  gazed  reproachfully  at  me.  I  smiled.  At  that 
critical  moment,  Volodya,  who  had  perceived  that  I  was 
speaking  with  Avarmth,  and  pr()l)al)ly  Avanted  to  know  how  I 
was  making  up  for  not  dancing  by  my  conversation,  ap- 
proached us  with  Dubkoff.  On  perceiving  m}'  smiling  face 
and  the  frightened  mien  of  the  I'rincess,  and  hearing  the 
frightful  stuff  with  which  I  wound  up,  he  reddened,  and 
turned  away.  The  Princess  rose  and  left  me.  I  went  on 
smiling,  but  suffered  so  much  from  the  consciousness  of  my 
stupidity,  that  I  was  read}'  to  sink  through  the  eai-fli,  and 
1  felt  the  necessity  of  making  some  movement,  at  any  cost, 


352  YOUTFI. 

and  of  sa3nng  soraetliing  to  effect  some  change  in  my  posi- 
tion. I  went  up  to  DubkotF,  and  inquired  if  lie  liad  danced 
many  waltzes  with  her.  '  By  this  I  seemed  to  be  jesting  and  in 
a  merry  mood,  but  in  reality  1  was  beseeching  the  assistance 
of  that  ver}^  Dubkoff'to  whom  I  had  shouted,  '' Silence!  " 
during  the  dinner  at  Jahr's.  Dubkoff  pretended  not  to  hear 
me,  and  turned  aside.  I  approached  Volodya,  and  said  with 
an  effort,  and  trying  to  impart  a  jesting  tone  to  my  voice, 
"■  Well,  how  now,  Volodya?  have  1  got  myself  up  gorgeous- 
ly? "  But  Volodya  looked  at  me  as  much  as  to  say,  '■'■  You 
don't  talk  like  that  to  me  when  we  are  alonfe,"  and  he  walked 
away  from  me  in  silence,  evidently  fearing  that  I  should  still 
get  into  some  difficulty. 

"  My  God  !   my  brother  also  deserts  me  !  "  I  thought. 

But,  for  some  reason,  I  had  not  the  strength  to  take  ray 
departure.  I  stood  ou  gloomily,  till  the  end  of  the  evening, 
in  one  place  ;  and  only  when  all  were  crowded  into  the  ante- 
room as  they  dispersed,  and  the  footman  put  my  coat  upon 
the  tip  of  my  hat,  so  that  it  tilted  up,  I  laughed  in  a  sickly 
way  through  my  tears,  and  said,  without  addressing  any  one 
in  particular,  "  How  pleasant  it  is  !  " 


YOUTH.  353 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE    CAROUSE. 

Although  I  had  not  as  yet,  in  consequence  of  Dmitri's 
influence,  given  myself  up  to  tlie  usual  pleasures  of  students, 
which  are  called  carouses,  it  had  been  my  lot  once,  during 
the  course  of  this  winter,  to  take  part  in  such  a  merry- 
making ;  and  I  carried  away  with  me  a  not  wholly  agreeable 
impression.     This  is  the  way  it  was. 

One  day,  duriug  a  lecture  at  the  beginning  of  the  year, 
Baron  Z.,  a  tall,  blonde  young  man,  with  a  very  serious 
expression  u[)Ou  his  regular  features,  invited  us  all  to  his 
house  to  pass  an  evening  as  comrades  together.  All  of  us 
meant,  of  course,  all  the  members  of  our  class  who  were 
more  or  less  comme  ilfaut;  among  whose  number,  of  course, 
neither  Grap  nor  Semenoff  nor  Operoff  were  included,  nor 
any  of  the  meaner  fellows.  Volodya  smiled  contemptuously 
when  he  heard  that  I  was  going  to  a  carouse  of  first-year 
men  ;  but  I  expected  great  and  remarkable  pleasure  from 
this  to  me  entirely  novel  mode  of  passing  the  time,  and  I 
was  at  Baron  Z.'s  punctually  at  eight  o'clock,  —  the  hour 
indicated. 

Baron  Z.,  in  a  white  vest  and  with  his  coat  unbuttoned, 
was  receiving  his  guests  in  the  brilliantly  lighted  hall  and 
drawing-room  of  the  small  house  in  which  his  parents  dwelt : 
they  had  given  up  the  state  apartments  to  him  for  that  even- 
ing's festivity.  In  the  corridor,  the  heads  and  dresses  of 
curious  maids  were  visible  ;  and  in  the  pantry,  the  dress  of  a 
lady,  whom  I  took  to  be  the  Baroness  herself,  flashed  by 
once. 

The  guests  were  twenty  in  number,  and  were  all  students, 
with  the  exception  of  Herr  Frost,  Avho  had  come  with  Ivin, 
and  a  tall,  ruddy-complexioned  gentleman  in  plain  clothes, 
who  attended  to  the  l)anquet.  and  who  was  known  to  every- 
body as  a  relative  of  the  P.aron.  and  a  former  student  at  the 
University  of  Dorpat.     The  over-brilliant  illuniinaUon,  and 


854  YOUTH. 

the  usual  regal  decoration  of  the  state  ajiartments,  produced 
a  chilling  effect  at  first  upon  this  youthful  company,  all  of 
whose  members  involuntarily  kept  close  to  the  walls,  лvith 
the  exception  of  a  few  bold  spirits  and  the  student  from 
Dorpat,  who  had  alread}'  unbuttoned  his  waistcoat,  and 
seemed  to  be  in  ever}'  room  and  in  every  corner  of  every 
room  at  one  and  the  same  time,  and  to  till  tiie  whole  apart- 
ment with  the  sound  of  his  resonant  and  agreeable  and 
never-silent  tenor  voice.  But  .tlie  fellows  either  remained 
silent,  or  modestl}'  discussed  the  professors,  the  sciences, 
the  examinations,  and  serious  and  interesting  subjects,  on 
the  whole.  Every  one,  without  exception,  stared  at  the  door 
of  the  supper-room,  and  wore  the  expression  which  said, 
though  they  strove  to  hide  it,  '■'■  Whv,  it's  time  to  liegin  i  " 
I  also  felt  that  it  лvas  time  to  begin,  and  I  awaited  the 
beginning  with  impatient  joy. 

After  tea,  whicli  the  footman  handed  round  to  tlie  guests, 
the  Dorpat  student  asked  Frost  in  Russian, — 

"  Do  you  know  how  to  make  punch,  Frost?  " 

''Oh,  yes!  "  replied  Frost,  wriggling  his  calves;  but  the 
Dorpat  student  again  addressed  him  in  Russian  :  — 

"Then  set  about  it"  (he  called  him  thou,  as  a  fellow- 
student  at  Dorpat)  ;  and  Frost  l)egan  to  go  from  the  draw- 
ing-room to  the  supper-room,  from  the  supper-room  to  the 
drawing-room,  Avith  great  strides  of  his  eur\ed  and  muscular 
legs;  and  there  speedil}'  made  its  appearance  on  the  table  a 
large  soup-tureen,  and  in  it  a  ten-pound  loaf  of  sugar,  sur- 
rounded bj'  three  student-daggers  laid  crosswise.  During 
this  time,  Baron  Z.  had  kept  incessantly  approaching  all  the 
guests,  who  were  assembled  in  the  di'awing-room,  and  saying 
to  all,  with  an  immovably-serious  face  and  in  almost  the 
same  words,  "  Come,  gentlemen,  let  us  mutually  drink  to 
brothei'hood  in  student  fashion,  or  лте  shall  have  no  com- 
radeship at  all  in  our  class."  And.  in  fact,  the  Dorpat  stu- 
dent, after  taking  off  his  coat,  and  stripping  up  his  white 
shirt-sleeves  above  his  white  elbows,  and  planting  his  feet 
far  apart  in  a  a  decided  fashion,  had  already  set  tire  to  the 
rum  in  the  soup-tureen. 

''Put  out  the  liglits,  gentlemen!"  cried  the  Dorpat  stu- 
dent suddenly,  as  loudly  and'  pleasantly  as  he  could  have 
done  if  we  had  all  shouted.  But  we  all  gazed  silently  at  the 
ftoup-tureen,  and  at  the  Dorjtat  student's  white  shirt,  and  all 
telt  that  the  solemn  moment  had  arrived. 


YOUTH.  355 

"  Extinguish  the  lights,  Frost !  "  cried  the  Dorpat  student 
again,  and  in  German.  haA'ing  evidently  become  too  much 
heated.  Frost  and  all  the  rest  of  us  set  about  extinguishing 
the  caudles.  All  was  dark  in  the  room,  onl}'  the  white  sleeves 
and  the  hands  which  lifted  the  loaf  of  sugar  on  the  daggers 
were  illuminated  bv  the  bluish  flame.  The  Dorpat  student's 
loud  tenor  was  no  longer  alone,  for  talking  and  laughter  pro- 
ceeded from  every  quarter  of  the  room.  Man}'  took  off  their 
coats  (especially  those  who  had  fine  and  perfectly  clean 
shirts).  I  did  the  same,  and  understood  that  it  had  begun. 
Although  notliing  jolly  had  happened  so  far,  I  Avas  firmly  con- 
vinced that  it  would  be  capital  when  we  had  drunk  a  glass 
of  the  beverage  which  had  been  prepared. 

The  beverage  was  a  success.  The  Dorpat  student  poured 
the  punch  into  glasses,  spotting  the  table  a  good  deal  in  the 
process,  and  shouted,  "Now,  gentlemen,  give  your  hands  !  " 
And  each  time  that  we  took  a  full,  stick}-  glass  in  our 
hands,  the  Dorpat  student  and  Frost  struck  up  a  German 
song,  in  which  the  exclamation  jurhhe  was  frequently  re- 
peated ;  we  joined  in  discoidantly,  began  to  clink  our 
glasses,  to  shout  something,  to  praise  the  punch,  and  to 
quaff  the  sweet,  strong  liquor  through  our  hands  or  simply. 
There  was  nothing  to  wait  for  now,  therefore  the  carouse 
was  in  full  swing.  I  had  alread}-  drunk  a  full  glass  of  punch, 
they  poured  me  another  :  my  temples  began  to  throb,  the  fire 
seemed  crimson,  every  one  was  shouting  and  laughing  around 
me  :  but  still  it  not  only  did  not  seem  joU}',  but  1  was  even 
convinced  that  I,  and  every  one  else,  was  bored,  and  that  I 
and  the  others  considered  it  indispensable,  for  some  reason 
or  other,  to  pretend  that  it  was  very  jolly.  The  only  one 
who  could  not  have  been  dissimulating  was  the  Dorpat  stu- 
dent. He  grew  constantly  redder  and  more  talkative,  filled 
every  one's  empt}'  glass,  and  spilled  more  and  more  on  the 
table,  Avhich  Ijecame  all  sлveet  and  stick}'.  I  do  not  remem- 
ber in  just  what  order  things  occurred,  but  I  recollect  that 
I  was  awfully  fond  of  Frost  and  the  Dorpat  student  that 
evening,  that  I  learned  a  German  song  by  heart,  and  kissed 
them  lioth  on  their  sweet  lips.  I  also  recollect  that  I  hated 
the  Dorpat  student  that  same  CA'cning.  and  wanted  to  fling 
a  chair  at  him,  but  refrained.  I  recollect,  that  in  addition 
to  the  consciousness  of  the  insubordination  of  all  my  limbs, 
which  I  had  experienced  at  Jahr's,  my  head  ached  and  swam 
80  that  evening  that  I  was  awfully  afraid  I  was  going  to  die 


356  YOUTH. 

that  very  minute.  I  also  recollect  that  wc  all  seated  our- 
selves ou  the  floor,  for  some  reason  oi'  other,  flourished  our 
arms  iu  imitation  of  oars,  sang  "  Adovvn  our  Motlier  Volga," 
and  that,  meantime,  I  was  thinking  that  it  was  not  at  all 
necessar3'  to  do  so.  Furthermore,  1  recollect  that,  as  I  lay 
ou  the  floor,  I  hooked  one  leg  around  the  other,  stretched 
myself  out  in  g3'psy  fashion,  twisted  some  one's  neck,  and 
thought  that  it  would  not  have  happened  if  he  had  not  been 
drunk.  I  remember  too,  that  we  had  supper,  and  drank 
something  else  ;  that  I  went  out  into  the  courtyard  to  refresh 
myself,  and  my  head  felt  cold  ;  and  that  I  noticed  when  I 
went  away  that  it  was  dreadfully  dark,  that  the  step  of  my 
drozhky  lproli/6tk<i)  had  become  steep  and  slipper3%  and 
that  it  was  impossible  to  hold  on  to  Kuzma,  because  he  had 
become  weak,  and  swayed  aljout  like  a  rag.  [But  I  remember 
chiefly,  that  in  the  course  of  the  evening  I  constantly  felt  that 
I  was  behaving  very  stupidly  in  feigning  to  be  very  jolly,  to 
be  very  fond  of  drinking  a  great  deal,  and  did  not  think 
of  being  drunk,  and  all  the  time  I  felt  that  the  others  were 
behaving  very  foolishly  in  pretending  the  same.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  it  was  disagreeable  for  each  one  individually,  as 
it  was  for  me  ;  but  as  each  supposed  that  he  alone  experi- 
enced this  disagreeable  sensation,  he  considered  himself 
bound  to  feign  gayety  in  order  not  to  interfere  with  the  gen- 
eral jollity.  Moreover,  strange  to  say,  I  felt  that  dissimu- 
lation was  incumbent  on  me  simply  because  three  bottles  of 
champagne  at  ten  rubles  apiece,  and  ten  bottles  of  rum  at 
four  rubles,  had  been  poured  into  the  soup-tureen,  which 
amounted  to  seventy  rubles,  besides  the  supper.  I  was  so 
fully  convinced  of  this,  that  I  was  very  much  surprised  the 
next  day  at  the  lecture,  when  my  comrades  who  had  been  !.t 
Baron  Z.'s  not  only  were  not  ashamed  to  mention  that  they 
had  been  there,  but  talked  about  the  party  so  that  other  stu- 
denta  could  hear.  They  said  that  it  was  a  spleudid  carouse  ; 
that  the  Dorpat  fellows  were  great  hands  at  these  things,  and 
that  twenty  men  had  drunk  forty  bottles  of  rum  between 
them,  and  that  many  had  been  left  for  dead  under  the  tables. 
I  could  not  understand  why  they  talked  about  it,  and  even 
lied  about  themselves. 


YOUTH.  357 


CHAPTER   XL. 

FRIENDSHIP    WITH    THE    NEKIILIUDOFFS. 

During  the  winter,  I  not  only  saw  a  great  deal  of  Dmitri, 
who  came  to  our  house  quite  frequently,  but  of  all  his  family, 
with  whom  I  began  to  associate. 

The  Nekhliudoffs,  the  mother,  aunt,  and  daughter,  passed 
all  their  evenings  at  home  ;  and  the  Princess  liked  to  have 
young  people  come  to  see  her  in  the  evening,  men  of  the  sort, 
as  she  expressed  it,  who  were  capable  of  passing  a  whole 
evening  without  cards  and  dancing.  But  there  must  have  been 
very  few  such  men  ;  for  I  rarely  met  any  visitors  there,  though 
1  went  there  nearly  every  evening.  1  l)ecame  accustomed  to 
the  members  of  this  family,  and  to  their  various  dispositions, 
and  had  already  formed  a  clear  conception  of  their  nmtual 
relations.  I  l)ecame  accustomed  to  their  rooms  and  furni- 
ture ;  and  when  there  were  no  guests  I  felt  myself  perfectly 
at  my  ease,  except  on  the  occasions  when  I  was  left  alone  in 
I  he  room  vvitii  Varenka.  It  still  seemed  to  me  as  if,  although 
not  a  very  pretty  girl,  she  would  like  very  much  to  have  me 
f;ili  in  love  with  her.  But  even  this  agitation  began  to  pass 
off.  She  had  such  a  natural  appearance  of  not  caring 
whether  she  talked  to  me,  or  to  her  brother,  or  Liubov  Ser- 
gieevna,  that  I  acquired  the  lml»it  of  looking  upon  her  ;is 
upon  a  person  to  луЬош  it  was  not  at  :dl  either  di.^graceful  or 
dangerous  to  show  tlie  pleasure  which  I  took  in  her  society. 
During  the  whole  period  of  my  acquaintance  with  her.  .she 
seemed  to  me  on  different  days  very  ugly,  again  not  such  a 
very  ugh'  girl ;  but  never  once  did  I  ask  myself  with  regard 
to  her,  "Am  I  in  love  with  her,  or  not?"  I  sometimes 
chnnced  to  talk  directly  to  her,  but  more  frecpiently  I  con- 
vei'sed  with  her  ])y  directing  my  remarks  in  her  presence  to 
liiubov  Sergieevna  or  Dmitri,  and  this  l.-ist  nn'thod  gave  me 
pnrticnlar  pleasure.  I  took  great  satisfaction  in  talking 
before  her,   in  listening  to  her  ■singing,   and  in  the  general 


858  YOUTH. 

consciousness  of  her  presence  in  the  room  whore  I  was  ;  liut 
the  thought  as  to  what  my  relations  with  Varenka  would 
eventually  become,  and  dreams  of  sacrificing  myself  for  my 
friend  in  case  he  should  fall  in  love  with  my  sister,  rarely 
entered  my  head  now.  If  such  ideas  and  dreams  did  occur 
to  me,  I  strove  to  thrust  aside  any  thought  of  the  future, 
since  I  was  content  with  the  present. 

In  spite,  however,  of  this  intimacy,  I  coutinned  to  feel  it 
m}'  imperative  duty  to  conceal  from  the  whole  Nekhliudofif 
society,  and  from  Varenka  in  particular,  my  real  sentiments 
and  inclinations  ;  and  I  endeavored  to  show  myself  an  entirely 
different  young  man  from  what  I  was  in  realit}^  and  such, 
indeed,  as  I  could  not  be  in  reality.  I  strove  to  appear  emo- 
tional ;  I  Avent  into  raptures,  I  groaned,  and  made  passionate 
gestures  when  any  thing  pleased  me  greatly  :  and  at  the  same 
time  I  endeavored  to  seem  iudiffci-ent  to  ever}^  unusual  occur- 
rence which  I  saw,  or  of  which  I  was  told.  I  tried  to  ai)pear 
a  malicious  scorner  who  held  nothhig  sacred,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  delicate  obserA^er.  I  tried  to  appear  logical  in  all  my 
actions,  refined  and  accurate  in  nw  life,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  person  Avho  despised  all  material  things.  I  can  assert 
boldl}  that. I  was  much  better  in  reality  than  the  strange  being 
which  I  endeavored  to  represent  as  myself  ;  but  neverthe- 
less, and  represent  myself  as  I  would,  the  Nekhliudoffs  liked 
me,  and,  happily  for  me  as  it  turned  out,  did  not  believe 
in  my  dissimulation.  Liubov  fSergieevna  alone,  who,  it 
seems,  regarded  me  as  a  great  egoist,  a  godless  and  sneer- 
ing fellow,  did  not  like  me,  and  often  quarrelled  with  me, 
got  into  a  rage,  and  amazed  me  with  her  broken  and  inco- 
herent phrases.  But  Dmitri  still  maintained  the  same  strange 
rather  than  fiiendly  relations  with  her,  and  said  that  no  one 
understood  her.  and  that  she  did  him  a  very  great  deal  of 
good.  His  friendship  with  her  continued  to  be  a  grievance 
to  his  family. 

Once  Varenka,  in  discussing  with  me  this  union  which 
was  so  incomprehensible  to  them  all,  explained  it  thus : 
''  Dmitri  is  an  egoist.  He  is  too  proud,  and,  in  spite  of  all 
his  cleverness,  he  is  ver}"  fond  of  praise  and  admiration, 
loves  to  be  first  always  ;  and  aunty,  in  the  innocence  of  her 
soul,  finds  herself  admiring  him  ;  and  has  not  sufficient  tact 
to  conceal  this  admiration  from  him.  and  so  it  comes  to  pass 
that  she  flatters,  only  not  hypocritically,  ])ut  in  earnest." 

I  remembered  this  judgment,  and  ou  examining  it  after- 


YOUTH.  359 

wards  I  could  not  but  think  that  Varenka  was  veiy  clever ; 
and  I  exalted  her  in  my  own  opinion  with  satisfaction,  in 
consequence.  This  sort  of  exaltation,  in  consequence  of  the 
intelligence  I  had  discovered  in  her,  and  of  other  moral  qual- 
ities, I  accomplished  with  a  certain  stern  moderation,  thcjugh 
with  satisfaction  ;  and  I  never  Avent  into  ecstasies,  the  high- 
est point  of  that  exaltation.  Thus,  when  Sophia  Ivanovna, 
who  talked  unweariedly  of  her  niece,  told  me  how,  Avhen  Va- 
renka was  a  child  in  the  country  four  years  before,  she  had 
given  all  her  clothes  and  shoes  to  the  peasant  children  Avith- 
out  permission,  so  that  they  had  to  be  taken  away  after- 
wards, I  did  not  at  once  accept  that  fact  as  worth}-  of  exalt- 
ing her  in  my  opinion,  but  I  mentally  ridiculed  her  for  such 
an  unpractical  vicAv  of  things. 

ЛУЬеп  there  were  guests  at  the  Nekhliudoffs',  and  among 
others  Volodya  and  DubkoiT,  I  retired  into  the  background 
in  a  self-satisfied  way,  and  with  a  certain  calm  consciousness 
of  power,  as  of  a  man  of  the  house  ;  did  not  talk,  and  merely 
listened  to  what  others  said.  And  every  thing  that  Avas  said 
seemed  to  me  so  incrediljly  stupid,  that  1  inwardly  wondered 
how  such  an  intelligent,  logical  woman  as  the  Princess,  and 
all  her  logical  famih',  could  listen  to  such  folly,  and  repl}'  to 
it.  Had  it  then  occurred  to  me  to  compare  what  others  said 
with  what  I  said  myself  when  I  was  alone,  I  should  certainly 
not  have  marvelled  in  the  least.  I  should  have  marvelled 
still  less  if  I  had  believed  that  the  members  of  our  house- 
hold —  Avdotj^a,  Vasilievna,  Liubotchka,  and  Kateuka  — 
were  just  like  all  other  women,  and  no  worse  than  any 
others  ;  and  if  I  had  recalled  the  fact  that  Dubkoff,  Katenka, 
and  Avdotya  YasilicA^ia  had  conversed  together  for  whole 
evenings,  laughing  merrily  ;  and  how,  on  nearh*  every  occa- 
sion, Dubkoff,  desiring  to  get  up  a  discussion  on  something, 
recited,  with  feeling,  ,the  A'erses,  "  Au  banquet  de  la  \\e 
infortuue  convive,"  ^  or  extracts  from  "The  Demon  ;  "  ^  and 
what  nonsense  the}'  talked,  on  the  whole,  and  with  how  much 
pleasure,  for  several  hours  together. 

AVhen  there  were  visitors,  of  course  Varenka  paid  less 
attention  to  me  than  when  we  were  alone  ;  and  then  there 
Avas  no  music  or  reading,  which  I  was  ver}'  fond  of  listening 
to.  In  conversing  with  visitors,  she  lost  what  was  for  me 
her  chief  charm,  —  her  calm  deliberation  and  simplicity.     I 

1  An  unfortunate  auest  at  the  banquet  o'  life. 
*  A.  celebrateii  poem  by  Lermouloff. 


360  YOUTH. 

remcmlicr  what  a  strange  surprise  her  ooiiA^ersations  with  my 
brother  V^olodya,  about  the  theatre  and  the  weather,  were  to 
me.  I  knew  that  Volodya  avoided  and  despised  common- 
places more  than  any  tiling  else  in  the  world  ;  Varenka, 
also,  always  ridiculed  hyi)()eritically  absorbing  discussions 
about  the  weather,  and  so  forth  :  then  why,  when  they  came 
together,  did  they  constantly  utter  the  most  intolerable 
absurdities,  and  that,  too,  as  though  they  were  ashamed  of 
each  other?  I  went  into  a  private  rage  with  Varenka  after 
every  such  conversation,  ridiculed  the  visitors  on  the  follow- 
ing da}',  but  took  still  greater  pleasure  in  being  alone  in  the 
Nekhliudoff  family  circle. 

At  all  events,  1  began  to  take  more  pleasure  in  being  with 
Dmitri  in  his  mother's  drawing-room  than  alone  face  to  face 
with  him. 


YOUTH.  361 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

FRIEXDSniP    ЛУ1Т11    THE    NEKHLIUDOFFS. 

Just  at  this  time,  in}'  friendship  with  Dmitri  hung  by  a 
liair.  I  had  begun  to  criticise  him  too  long  ago  not  to  find 
that  he  had  failings  ;  but,  in  our  early  youth,  we  love  with 
the  passions  only,  and  therefore  only  perfect  people.  But 
as  soon  as  the  mist  of  passion  begins,  little  by  little,  to 
decrease,  or  as  soon  as  the  clear  rays  of  judgment  begin 
to  pierce  it  involuntarily,  and  we  behold  the  object  of  our 
passion  in  his  real  aspect,  with  his  merits  and  his  short- 
comings, the  shortcomings  alone  strilve  us  as  something 
unexpected,  in  a  vivid  and  exaggerated  manner ;  the  feeling 
of  attraction  towards  a  пол-elty,  and  the  hope  that  it  is  not 
utteily  imi)0ssible  in  another  man,  encourage  us  not  only  to 
coolness,  but  to  repugnance  for  the  former  ol)jeet  of  our 
passion,  and  we  desert  him  without  compunction,  and  hasten 
forward  to  seek  some  new  perfection.  If  it  was  not  pre- 
cisely this  which  happened  to  me  in  my  connection  with 
Dmitri,  it  was  because  I  was  only  bound  to  him  by  an  obsti- 
nate, pedantic,  and  intellectual  affection,  rather  than  by  an 
affection  from  the  heart,  which  I  was  too  much  ashamed  to 
))e  false  to.  ЛУе  were  bound,  тогеол-ег,  by  our  strange  rule 
of  frankness.  We  were  afraid,  that,  if  we  parted,  we  should 
leave  too  much  in  each  other's  power  all  the  moral  secrets 
which  we  had  confided  to  each  other,  and  of  which  some 
were  dishonorable  to  us.  Besides,  our  rule  of  franknes^s, 
as  лvas  evident  to  us,  had  not  been  kept  for  a  long  time  ; 
and  it  embarrassed  us,  and  brought  about  strange  relations 
between  us. 

Almost  every  time  that  I  went  to  Dmitri  that  winter.  I    Ър^ 
found   with   him   his  comrade   in   the   universit}^   a   student        ^i 
named  Bezobyedoff.  with  whom  he  was  engaged.     Bezobye-    ^"'"'^^ 
doff  was  a  small,  thin,  pock-marked  man,  with  very  small 
bauds  which  were  covered  with  freckles,  and  a  great  mass  of 


362  YOUTH. 

unkempt  red  hair.  He  was  always  ver\^  rasfged  and  dirty,  he 
was  ипсиклл'а1еи,  and  he  even  stndied  badly.  Dmitri's  rela- 
tions Avith  him  were,  like  his  rcdations  witii  Liubov  Sergieevna, 
iucomprehensil)le  to  me.  The  sole  reason  why  he  conld 
have  selected  him  from  among  all  his  comrades,  and  have 
become  intimate  with  him,  was,  that  there  was  not  a  student 
in  the  whole  universit}*  who  was  uglier  in  appearance  than 
Bezobyedoff.  But  it  must  have  been  precisel}^  for  that 
reason  that  Dmitri  found  it  agreeable  to  exhibit  friendship 
for  him  in  spite  of  everybody.  In  his  whole  intercourse 
witli  this  student,  the  luiuglity  sentiment  was  expressed: 
"■  It's  nothing  to  me  who  you  are:  you  are  all  the  same  to 
me.     I  like  him,  and  of  course  he's  all  right." 

I  was  surprised  that  he  did  not  find  it  hard  to  put  a 
constant  constraint  upon  himself,  and  that  the  unfortunate 
Bezobyedoff  endured  his  awkward  position.  This  friendship 
did  not  please  me  at  all. 

Once  I  came  to  Dmitri  in  the  evening  for  the  purpose  of 
spending  the  evening  in  his  mothei-'s  drawing-room  with  him, 
in  conversation  and  in  listening  to  Varenka's  singing  or  read- 
ing ;  but  Bezobyedoff  was  sitting  up-stairs.  Dmitri  replied 
to  me  in  a  sharp  tone  that  he  could  not  come  down  because 
he  had  company,  as  I  could  see  for  m^'self. 

"And  what  fun  is  there  there?"  he  added:  "  it's  much 
better  to  sit  here  and  chat."  Although  tlie  idea  of  sitting 
and  talking  with  Bezobyedoff  for  a  couple  of  h(jurs  did  not 
attract  me.  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  go  to  the  draw- 
ing-room alone  ;  and  vexed  to  the  soul  at  my  friend's  eccen- 
tricity, I  seated  nn'self  in  a  rocking-chair,  and  began  to  rock 
in  silence.  I  was  very  much  provoked  with  Dmitri  and  with 
Bezobyedoff,  because  they  had  depi'ived  me  of  the  pleasure  of 
going  down-stairs.  I  wanted  to  see  whether  Bezobyedoff 
would  take  his  departure  soon  ;  and  I  was  angry  with  him  and 
Dmitri  as  I  listened  in  silence  to  their  conversation.  "  A  verj' 
agreeable  guest!  sit  down  with  him  !  "  thought  I,  when  the 
footman  brought  tea,  and  Dmitri  had  to  ask  Bezobyedoff  five 
times  to  take  a  glass,  because  the  timid  visitor  considered 
himself  bound  to  decline  tlie  first  and  second  glasses,  and  to 
say,  "  Hcl[)  3'ourself. "  Dmitri,  with  a  visible  effort,  engaged 
his  A'isitor  in  conversation,  into  wliicli  he  made  several  vain 
efforts  to  drag  me.     I  preserved  a  gloomy  silence. 

''There's  nothing  to  be  done:  let  nc  one  dare  suspect 
from  my  face  tliat  I  am  bored,"  1  addressed  myself  men- 


YOUTH.  363 

tally  to  Dmitri,  as  I  rocked  mj-self  silonth'  and  regularly  in 
my  chair.  I  fanned  the  flame  of  quiet  hatred  towards  my 
friend  within  me  more  and  more.  "  What  a  fool !  "  1  thouglit 
of  him.  '•  He  might  have  spent  a  delightful  evening  with  his 
dear  relations,  but  no,  he  sits  here  with  this  beast ;  and  now 
the  time  is  past,  it  is  already  too  late  to  go  to  the  drawing- 
room  ;  "  and  I  peeped  at  mj^  friend  from  behind  the  edge  of 
my  chair.  His  hands,  his  attitude,  his  neck,  and  especially 
the  nape  of  it,  and  his  knees,  seemed  so  repulsive  an(l  morti- 
fying that  I  could  have  taken  great  delight  at  that  moment 
i:i  doing  something  to  him,  even  something  extremely  dis- 
agreeable. 

At  length  Bezobyedoff  rose,  but  Dmitri  could  not  at  once 
[)art  from  so  agreeable  a  guest.  He  jn-oposed  to  him  that  he 
should  spend  the  night  there  ;  to  which,  fortunatel}'^,  Bezo- 
byedoff clid  not  consent,  and  departed. 

After  having  seen  him  off,  Dmitri  returned  ;  and  smiling 
brightly  in  a  self-satisfied  wa}",  and  rubbing  his  hands,  prob- 
al)ly  because  he  had  kept  up  his  character,  and  because  he 
Iiad  at  last  got  rid  of  his  ennui.,  he  began  to  pace  the  room, 
glancing  at  me  from  time  to  time.  He  was  still  more  repul-, 
sive  to  me.     ''  How  dare  he  walk  and  smile?  "  thought  I. 

"•  Why  are  you  angry?  "  said  he  suddenly,  halting  in  front 
of  mc. 

••  I  am  not  angry  at  all,"  I  answered,  as  one  always  an- 
swers on  such  occasions  :  ''I  am  only  vexed  that  you  sliould 
dissimulate  to  me  and  to  Bezoliyedoff,  and  to  yourself." 

'•  What  nonsense  !  I  never  dissimulate  to  au}^  one." 

'*  I  have  not  forgotten  our  rule  of  frankness:  I  speak 
openly  to  you.  I  am  convinced  that  that  Bezoliyedoff  is  as 
intolerable  to  you  as  to  me,  because  he  is  stupid,  and  God 
knows  what  else  ;  but  j^u  like  to  put  on  airs  before  him." 

'*Xo!  and,  m  the  first  place,  Bezobyedoff  is  a  л^ег}'  fine 
man." 

'•  And  I  tell  3'ou,  yes  ;  I  will  even  go  so  far  as  to  say  to 
you  that  3'our  friendship  with  Liubov  Sergieevna  is  also 
founded  on  the  fact  that  she  considers  you  a  god." 

"And  I  tell  you,  no." 

"  But  I  tell  з'ои,  3^es,  because  I  know  it  l>y  ray  own  case," 
I  rei)lied  with  the  warmth  of  suppressed  vexation,  and  desir- 
ous of  disarming  him  by  my  frankness.  "  I  have  told  you, 
and  I  repeat  it,  that  it  always  seems  to  me  that  1  like  those 
people  who  say  pleasant  things  to  me  ;  and  when  I  come  to 


364  Your  тт. 

examine  the  matter  well,  I  see  that  there  is  no  real  attach- 
ment." 

"■  No,"  went  on  Dmitri,  acliustino-  his  neckerchief  wilh  av. 
angry  motion  of  the  nec-lv  ;  *•'  wlien  1  love,  neither  prai.se  uor 
blame  can  change  m^'  feelings." 

"■  It  is  not  true.  I  have  confessed  to  you  that  Avlien  pnpa 
called  me  a  good-for-nothing,  I  iiated  him  for  a  while,  and 
desired  his  death,  just  as  you  "  — 

"  Speak  for  yourself.     It's  a  great  pity  if  you  ai*e  sut  h  "  — 

"  On  the  contrary,"  I  cried,  springing  from  my  chair,  and 
looking  him  in  the  eye  with  desperate  braver}^  ''  wiiat  you 
are  saying  is  not  right ;  did  з'ои  not  speak  to  me  about  my 
brother?  I  will  not  remind  you  of  it,  because  that  would  be 
dishonorable.  Did  you  not  s[)eak  tome —  And  I  will  tell 
you  how  I  understand  you  now  "  — 

And,  endeavoi'ing  to  wound  him  ел^еп  more  painfully  than 
he  had  wounded  me,  I  began  to  demonstrate  to  him  that  he 
did  not  love  any  one,  and  to  tell  him  every  thing  with  wliich, 
as  it  seemed  to  me,  I  had  a  right  to  repi'oach  him.     I  was 
ver}'  much  pleased  at  having  told  hira  ever}-  thing,  quite  for- 
getting that  the  only  possible  oltject  of  this  exposition,  which 
[consisted  in  his  confessing  the  shortcomings  with  which  I 
charged  him,  could  not  be  attained  at  the  present  moment, 
rhen  he  was  excited.     But  I  never  said  this  to  hira  when  he 
ras  in  a  state  of  composure,  and  could  acknowledge  it. 

The  dispute  had  already  passed  into  a  quarrel,  when  Dmi- 
tri became  silent  all  at  once,  and  went  into  the  next  room. 
I  was  on  the  point  of  following  him,  talking  all  the  while, 
but  he  did  not  reply  to  me.  I  knew  that  violent  passion  was 
set  down  in  his  list  of  vices,  and  that  he  had  conquered  him- 
*      self  now.     I  cursed  all  his  registers. 

\  So  this  was  to  what  our  rule  had  led  us,  ^^  tell  each  other 

\    every  thing  thxt  tve  thnught,  and  neoer  to  sai/  am/  thing  about 
\   f"c7i  other  to  any  third  pey'.son.      Carried  away  by  frauk- 
\  ness,  we  had  sometimes  proceeded  to  the  most  shameless 
\  confessions,  announcing,  to  our  own  shame,  ideas,  dreams 
\of  desire  and  sentiment,  such  as  I  had  just  expressed  to  him, 
tor  example  ;  and  these  confessions  not  only  had  not  drawn 
closer  the  bond  which  nnited  us,  but  they  had  drietl  up  the 
feeling  itself,  and  separated  us.     And  now,  all  at  once,  ego- 
tism clid  not  permit  him  to  make  the  most  trivial  confession ; 
and  in  the  heat  of    our  dispute  we  made  use  of  the  very 
weapons  with  which  we  had  previously  supplied  each  other, 
and  which  dealt  frightfully  painful  blows. 


YOUTH.  3G5 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE    STEPMOTHER. 

Although  papa  had  not  meant  to  come  to  ]\roscow  with 
his  wife  until  after  the  new  year,  he  arrived  in  October,  at 
a  season  Avlien  there  was  excellent  autunm  hunting  to  be  had 
with  the  dogs.  Papa  said  that  he  had  changed  his  plan  be- 
cause his  case  was  to  be  heard  in  the  senate  ;  but  Alimi  told 
us  that  Avdotya  Vasilievna  hod  become  so  bored  in  the 
country,  had  spoken  so  frequently  of  Moscow,  and  feigned 
illness,  that  papa  had  decided  to  compl}^  with  her  wishes. 
For  she  had  never  loved  him,  but  had  only  niurmm-ed  her 
love  in  everybody's  ears,  out  of  a  desire  to  marry  a  rich 
man,  said  Mimi,  sighing  thoughtfully,  as  miicli  as  to  say, 
''  It's  not  what  some  people  would  have  done  for  him,  if  he 
had  but  known  how  to  prize  them." 

Some  peojjle  were  unjust  to  Avdotya  \^asilievna.  Her  love 
for  papa,  passionate,  devoted  love,  and  self-sacrifice,  were 
evident  in  every  word,  every  look,  and  every  movement. 
But  this  love  did  not  in  the  least  prevent  her  cherishing  a 
desire,  in  company  with  the  desire  not  to  leave  her  husband, 
for  remarkal)le  headdresses  from  Madame  Annette,  for  l)on- 
nets  with  extraordinary  blue  osti'ich-feathers,  and  gowns  of 
blue  Venetian  velvet,  that  artistically  revealed  her  fine  white 
arms  and  bosom,  which  had  hitherto  been  exhibited  to  no  one 
except  to  her  husband  and  dressing-maids.  Katenka  took 
her  mother's  part,  of  coarse  ;  while  between  our  stepmother 
and  us  certain  odd,  jesting  relations  established  themselves 
from  the  verj-  day  of  her  arrival.  As  soon  as  she  alighted 
from  the  carriage,  Volod3'a  went  up,  scraping,  and  swaying 
back  and  forth,  to  kiss  her  hand,  having  assumed  a  grave 
face  and  troubled  eyes,  and  said,  as  though  he  were  intro- 
ducing some  one  : 

"  I  have  the  honor  to  offer  my  congratulations  on  the  arrival 
of  a  dear  mamma,  and  to  kiss  her  baud." 


366  YOVTIL 

"  Ah,  my  clear  sou  !  "  said  Avdotya  A'asilievua,  witli  her 
beautiful,  mouotouous  smile. 

''And  do  not  forget  3'our  second  little  son,"  said  I,  also 
approachiug  to  kiss  her  hand,  and  involuntarily  trying  to  as- 
sume the  expression  of  \'olodya's  face  and  voice. 

If  our  stepmother  and  we  had  been  sure  of  our  mutual 
attachment,  this  expression  might  have  indicated  scorn  of 
the  exhiliition  of  any  tokens  of  affection  ;  if  we  had  already 
been  ill-disposed  towards  each  other,  it  might  have  indicated 
irony,  or  scorn  of  hypocrisy,  or  a  desire  to  conceal  our  real 
relations  from  our  father,  who  was  present,  and  man}'  other 
thoughts  and  feelings  :  but  in  the  present  ease  this  expres- 
sion, which  suited  Avdotya  Vasilievua's  taste  extremely  well, 
indicated  notliing  at  all,  and  only  pointed  to  an  utter  ab- 
sence of  all  relations.  I  have  often  observed  these  false  and 
jesting  relations  since,  in  other  families,  where  the  meml)ers 
of  them  foresee  that  the  actual  relations  will  not  be  quite 
agreeable  ;  and-these  relations  involuntaril}'  established  them- 
selves between  us  and  Avdotya  \"asilievna.  AVe  hardly  ever 
departed  from  them  ;  we  were  always  hypocritically  polite  to 
her,  spoke  French,  scraped  and  bowed,  and  calletl  her  '■•chere 
maman,"  to  which  she  alwa3's  replied  with  jests,  in  the  same 
style,  and  her  beautiful,  monotonous  smile.  Tearful  Liu- 
botchka  alone,  with  her  crooked  legs  and  innocent  prattle, 
took  a  liking  to  the  stepmother,  and  strove  very  naively,  and 
sometimes  awkwardly,  to  bring  her  into  closer  connection 
with  all  our  family  ;  and  in  return,  the  onl}'  creature  in  all 
the  world  for  whom  Ал-dotya  Vasilievna  had  a  drop  of  affec- 
tion, with  the  exception  of  her  passionate  love  for  papa, 
was  Liubotchka.  Avdotya  Vasilievna  even  exhibited  for 
her  a  certain  ecstatic  admiration  and  a  timid  respect,  which 
greatly  amazed  me. 

At  first  Avdotya  was  very  fond  of  calling  herself  a  step- 
mother, and  hinting  at  the  evil  and  unjust  wa}'  in  which  chil- 
dren and  members  of  the  household  always  look  upon  a  step- 
mother, and  how  different  her  position  was  in  consequence  of 
this.  But  though  she  had  perceived  all  the  unpleasantness 
of  the  position,  she  had  done  nothing  to  escape  it ;  she  did  not 
caress  one,  make  presents  to  another,  and  avoid  grumbling, 
which  Avould  have  been  л'егу  easy  for  her,  since  she  was  verj* 
amiable,  and  not  exacting  in  disposition.  And  she  not  onl}' 
did  not  do  this,  but  on  the  contrary,  foreseeing  all  the  un- 
pleasantness of  her  position,  she  prepared  herself  for  defence 


YOUTH.  367 

without  having  been  attacked  ;  and,  taking  it  for  granted  that 
all  the  members  of  the  household  wished  to  use  all  the  means 
in  their  power  to  insult  her,  and  make  things  disagreeable  for 
her,  she  perceived  design  in  every  thing,  and  considered 
that  the  most  dignified  wa3-  for  her  was  to  suffer  in  silence  ; 
and,  since  she  won  no  love  by  her  abstention  from  action, 
of  course  she  w-on  ill-will.  Moreover,  she  was  so  lacking  in 
that  quality  of  understanding  which  was  developed  to  such  a 
high  degree  in  our  liouse,  and  which  I  have  already  men- 
tioned, and  her  habits  were  so  opposed  to  those  wdiich  had 
become  rooted  in  our  house,  that  this  alone  prejudiced  people 
against  her.  In  our  neat,  precise  house  she  always  lived  as 
though  she  had  but  just  arrived  ;  she  rose  and  retired  now 
early,  now  late  ;'  at  one  time  she  would  come  out  to  dinner, 
at  another  she  would  not,  and  sometimes  she  had  su[)per,  and 
again  she  had  none.  She  went  about  half-dressed  the  greater 
part  of  the  time  whon  we  had  no  visitors,  and  was  not 
ashamed  to  show  herself  to  us.  and  even  to  the  servants,  in  a 
white  petticoat,  with  a  shawl  thrown  around  her,  and  with 
bare  arms.  At  first  this  simplicity  pleased  me  ;  but  I  very 
soon  lost  all  the  respect  I  had  entertained  for  her,  in  conse- 
quence of  this  very  simplicity.  It  seemed  still  stranger  to  us, 
that  there  w^ere  two  totally  dissimilar  women  in  her,  accord- 
ing to  whether  we  had  visitors  or  not :  one,  in  the  presence 
of  guests,  w'as  a  healthy,  cold  young  beauty,  elegantly 
dressed,  neither  clever  nor  foolish,  but  cheerful;  the  other, 
when  no  guests  were  by,  was  a  sad,  worn-out  woman,  no 
longer  young,  untidy,  and  bored,  though  affectionate.  I 
often  thought,  as  I  looked  at  her  when  she  returned  smiling 
from  making  calls,  and  blushing  with  the  winter  cohl,  happy 
in  the  consciousness  of  her  beaut}',  and  went  up  to  the  mirror 
to  зигл'еу  herself  as  she  removed  her  bonnet ;  or  when  she 
went  to  the  carriage  rustling  in  her  rich,  low-necked  ball- 
dress,  feeling  a  little  ashamed,  3'et  proud,  before  the  servants  ; 
or  at  home,  when  we  had  little  evening  gatherings,  in  a  close 
silk  gown  with  some  delicate  lace  about  her  soft  neck,  she 
beamed  on  all  sides  with  her  monotonous  but  beautiful  smile, 
—  what  would  those  who  raved  over  her  have  said  if  the}' 
could  have  seen  her  as  I  did  on  the  evenings  when  she  stayed 
at  home,  and  strayed  though  the  dimly  lighted  rooms  like  a 
shadow,  as  she  awaited  her  husband's  ri'turn  from  tlie  cluli, 
in  some  sort  of  a  wrapper,  with  unkempt  hair?  Sometimes 
she  went  to  the  piano,  and  played  her  one  waltz,  frowning 


\ 


368  YOUTH. 

with  the  effort ;  then  she  would  take  a  A'ohime  of  romance, 
and.  after  i'eadin<>'  a  few  Hues  ont  (jf  the  middle  of  it.  llirnw 
it  away  ;  again,  in  order  not  to  wake  up  the  servants,  she 
would  go  to  the  panti'y  herself,  and  get  a  cucumber  and  cold 
Л''еа1,  and  eat  it  standing  by  the  pautiy-wiiulow  ;  or  would 
wander  from  room  to  room  aimlessly,  both  wear}"  and  bored. 
But  what  separated  us  from  lier  more  than  any  ihiug  else  was 
her  lack  of  tact,  ivhich  was  expressed  chietly  b^'  the  peculiar 
manner  of  her  condescending  attention  when  people  talked 
to  her  about  things  which  she  did  not  understand.  She  was 
not  to  blame,  because  she  had  unconsciously  acquired  a  habit 
of  smiling  slightly  with  the  lips  alone,  and  bending  her  head 
when  she  was  told  things  which  did  not  interest  her  (and 
nothing  except  herself  and  her  husband  did  interest  her)  ; 
but  that  smile,  and  bend  of  the  head,  frequently  repeated, 
were  inexpressibly  repellant.  Her  mirth,  too,  which  seemed 
to  ridicule  herself,  us,  and  all  the  world,  was  awkward,  and 
communicated  itself  to  no  one  ;  her  sensibility  was  too  arti- 
ficial. But  the  chief  thing  of  all  was  that  she  was  not 
ashamed  to  talk  constant^  to  every  one  about  her  love  for 
papa.  Although  she  did  not  lie  in  the  least  in  sa^'ing  of  it 
that  her  whole  life  consisted  in  her  love  for  her  husband,  and 
although  she  proved  it  with  her  whole  life,  yet,  according  to 
our  views,  such  ceaseless,  unreserved  assertion  of  her  affec- 
tion was  disgusting,  and  we'  were  ashamed  for  her  when  she 
spoke  of  it  before  strangers,  even  more  than  when  she  made 
mistakes  in  French. 

She  loved  her  husband  more  than  any  thing  in  the  world  ; 
and  her  husband  loved  her,  especially  at  first,  and  when  he 
saw  that  he  was  not  the  only  one  wiiom  she  pleased.  The 
sole  aim  of  her  existence  was  the  acquirement  of  her  hus- 
band's love  ;  but  it  seemed  as  though  she  purposely  did  every 
thing  which  could  be  disagreeable  to  him,  and  all  with  the 
object  of  showing  him  the  full  power  of  her  love,  and  her 
readiness  to  sacrifice  herself. 

She  loved  gala  attire  ;  my  father  liked  to  see  her  a  beauty 
in  society,  exciting  praise  and  admiration  :  she  sacrificed  her 
love  for  festivities,  for  father's  sake,  and  grew  more  and  more 
accustomed  to  sit  at  home  in  a  gi'ay  blouse.  Papa,  who 
always  had  considered  freedom  and  equality  indispensable 
conditions  in  family  intercourse,  hoped  that  his  beloved 
Linbotchka  and  his  good  young  wife  would  come  together 
in  a  sincere  and  friendly  way  ;  but  Avdotya  Vasilievua  was 


YOUTH.  369 

sacrificing  herself,  and  considered  it  requisite  to  sliow  the 
real  mistress  of  the  house,  as  slie  called  Liubotclika,  an  un- 
suitable amount  of  respect,  which  wounded  \щул  deeply. 
He  gambled  a  great  deal  that  winter,  and,  towards  the  end, 
lost  a  good  deal  of  money  ;  and  concealed  his  gambling 
matters  from  all  the  household,  as  he  always  did,  not  wish- 
ing to  mix  up  his  play  with  his  family  life.  Avdotya 
Vasilievna  sacrificed  lierself ;  sometimes  she  was  ill,  and 
towards  the  end  of  the  winter  she  was  enciente,  but  she  con- 
sidered it  her  duty  to  go  to  meet  papa  with  her  swinging 
gait,  in  her  gray  blouse,  and  with  unkempt  hair,  at  four  or 
five  o'clock  in  the  morning,  when  he  returned  from  his  club, 
at  times  weary  and  ashamed  after  his  losses. 

She  inquired,  in  an  absent-minded  wa}-,  whether  he  had 
been  lucky  at  play  ;  and  listened,  with  condescending  atten- 
tion, as  she  smiled  and  rolled  Jier  head  about,  to  what  he 
told  her  as  to  his  doings  at  the  club,  and  to  his  request,  a 
hundred  times  repeated,  that  she  would  never  wait  for  him. 
But  although  his  losses  and  winnings,  ui)on  Avhich,  according 
to  his  play,  all  papa's  property  depended,  did  not  interest 
her  in  the  least,  she  was  the  first  to  meet  him  every  night 
when  he  returned  from  the  club.  Moreover,  she  was  urged 
to  these  meetings,  not  by  her  passion  for  self-sacrifice  alone, 
btit  by  a  certain  concealed  jealousy  from  which  she  suffered 
in  the  highest  degree.  No  one  in  the  world  could  convince 
her  that  papa  was  returning  late  from  the  club,  and  not  from 
some  mistress.  She  tried  to  read  papa's  1ол''е  secrets  in  his 
face  ;  and,  as  she  could  see  nothing  there,  she  sighed  with  a 
certain  luxury  of  woe,  and  gave  herself  up  to  the  contempla- 
tion of  her  unhappiness. 

In  consequence  of  these  and  many  other  incessant  sac- 
rifices, there  came  to  be,  in  papa's  conduct  to  his  wife, 
towards  the  later  months  of  the  winter,  during  лу1йеЬ  he  had 
lost  a  great  deal,  so  that  he  was  out  of  spirits  the  greater 
part  of  the  time,  an  evident  and  mingled  feeling. of  quiet 
hate,  of  that  suppressed  repugnance  to  the  object  of  one's 
affections  which  expresses  itself  by  an  unconscious  endeavor 
to  cause  that  object  every  possible  sort  of  petty  moral  un- 
pleasantnesses. 


370  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XLIII. 

NEW    COMRADES. 

The  winter  passed  away  un perceived,  and  the  thaw  had 
ah'eady  begun  again,  and  at  the  university  the  lists  of 
examinations  had  ah-eadv  been  nailed  up  ;  when  all  at  once 
I  remembered  that  I  must  answer  to  the  eighteen  subjects 
which  1  had  listened  to,  and  not  one  of  which  I  had  heard, 
written  down,  or  prepared.  Strange  that  such  a  plain 
question,  "  How  am  I  to  pass  the  examinations?  "  had  never 
once  presented  itself  to  me.  But  I  had  been  in  such  a  mist 
that  whole  winter,  arising  from  m}'  delight  in  being  grown 
up  and  being  comme  it  faut^  that  when  it  did  occur  to  me, 
^'  How  am  I  to  pass  the  examinations?  "  I  compared  myself 
with  my  comrades,  and  thought,  "They  will  pass,  but  the 
majority  of  them  are  not  comme  il  faut  yet ;  so  I  still  have 
an  extra  advantage  over  them,  and  I  must  pass."  I  went  to 
the  lectures  simply  because  I  had  become  accustomed  to  it, 
and  because  papa  sent  me  out  of  the  house.  Moreover,  I 
had  a  great  many  acquaintances,  and  I  often  had  a  jolly 
time  at  the  university.  I  loved  the  noise,  the  chattering,  the 
laughing  in  the  auditorium  :  I  loved  to  sit  on  the  rear  bench 
during  tlie  lecture,  and  dream  of  something  or  other  to  the 
monotonous  sound  of  the  professor's  voice,  and  to  observe 
my  comrades  ;  I  liked  to  run  out  at  times  лvith  some  one  to 
Materna's,  to  drink  vixlka  and  take  a  bite,  and,  knowing 
that  I  uMght  be  punished  for  it,  to  enter  the  auditorium  after 
the  piofessor,  creaking  the  door  timidly  ;  I  loved  to  take 
l)art  in'  a  piece  of  mischief  when  class  after  class  congre- 
gated amid  laughter  in  the  corridors.  All  this  was  very 
jolly. 

When  every  bod}'  had  begun  to  attend  the  lectures  more 
faithfully,  and  the  professor  of  physics  had  finished  his 
course,  and  had  taken  leave  until  the  examinations,  the  stu- 
dents began  to  collect  their  note-books,  and  prepare  them- 


YOUTH.  371 

selves.  I  also  begau  to  tliink  of  preparing  m3'self.  Operoflf 
aud  1  continued  to  bow  to  eacli  otlier,  but  were  on  the  very 
coolest  terms,  as  I  have  already  said.  He  not  only  offered 
me  his  note-books,  but  invited  me  to  prepare  myself  from 
them  with  him  and  other  students.  I  thanked  him,  and  con- 
sented, hoping  bj'  this  honor  to  entirely  smooth  over  my 
former  disagreement  with  him  ;  but  all  I  asked  was  that  all 
would  be  sure  to  meet  at  my  house  every  time,  as  I  had  fine 
quarters. 

I  was  told  that  the  preparations  would  be  made  in  turn  at 
one  house  or  another,  according  to  its  nearness.  The  first 
meeting  took  place  at  Zukhin's.  It  was  a  little  room,  behind 
a  partition,  in  a  large  house  on  the  Trubnoi  Boulevard.  I 
was  late  on  the  first  day  named,  and  came  when  they  had 
already  begun  the  reading.  The  little  room  was  full  of 
smoke  from  the  coarse  tobacco  which  Zukhin  used,  which 
was  makhorka}  On  the  table  stood  a  square  bottle  of 
vodka,  glasses,  bread,  salt,  and  a  mutton-bone. 

Zukhin  invited  me,  without  rising,  to  take  a  drink  of 
vodka,  and  to  take  off  my  coat. 

"I  think  you  are  not  accustomed  to  such  an  eufertaiu- 
ment,"  he  added. 

All  were  in  dirty  calico  shirts,  with  false  bosoms.  I 
removed  my  coat,  trying  not  to  show  my  scorn  for  them, 
and  laid  it  on  the  sofa  with  an  air  of  comradeship.  Zukhin 
recited,  referring  now  and  then  to  the  note-books  :  the  others 
stopped  him  to  ask  questions  ;  and  he  explained  concisely, 
intelligently,  and  accurately.  I  began  to  listen  ;  and  as  I 
did  not  understand  much,  not  knowing  what  had  gone  be- 
fore, I  asked  a  question. 

"  Eh.  batiuschka,  you  can't  listen  if  you  don't  know  that," 
said  Zukhin.  "  I  will  give  you  the  note-books,  and  you  can 
go  through  them  for  to-morrow." 

I  was  ashamed  of  my  ignorance,  and,  conscious  at  the 
same  time  of  the  entire  j'ustice  of  Zukhin's  remark,  I  ceased 
to  listen,  and  busied  myself  with  obser\-ations  on  these  new 
associates.  According  to  the  classification  of  men  into  those 
%vho  were  comme  il  faut,  and  those  avIio  were  comme  U  ve 
faut  pas,  the}-  evidently  belonged  to  the  second  division,  and 
awakened  in  me,  consequently,  a  feeling  not  only  of  scoi-n, 
but  of  a  certain  personal  hatred  which  I  experienced  for 
them,  because,  though  they  were  not  amime  il  faut,  they  not 

1  Peesant  tobacco  {tiitotiana  rustka),  ijrowii  in  Little  Kussia. 


372  YOUTH. 

ouly  seemed  to  resrarrl  me  as  their  equal,  but  even  patronized 
me  in  a  good-natured  way.  Tills  feeling  was  aroused  in  me 
b}'  their  feet,  and  their  dii'ty  hands  with  their  ch)seh'  bitten 
nails,  and  one  long  nail  on  Operoff's  little  finger,  and  their 
piuk  shirts,  and  their  false  bosoms,  and  the  oaths  with  which 
they  affectionately  addi'essed  each  other,  and  the  dirty  room, 
and  Zukhin's  habit  of  constantly  blowing  his  nose  a  little, 
while  he  pressed  one  nostril  with  his  finger,  and  in  particular 
their  manner  of  speaking,  of  employing  and  accenting  certain 
words.  For  instance,  they  used  blockhead  instead  of  fool ; 
just  so  instead  of  exactly  ;  splendid  instead  of  very  beautiful ; 
and  so  on  :  which  seemed  to  me  to  be  book-language,  and  dis- 
gustingly ungentlemanly.  But  that  which  aroused  my  comme 
il  fuut  hatred  was  the  accent  which  the}'  placed  on  certain 
Kussian,  and  especiall}^  on  foreign  words  :  they  said  machine, 
activity,  on  purpose,  in  the  chimney,  Shakspeare  instead  of 
Shakspeare,  and  so  forth,  and  so  forth. 

But  in  spite  of  their  exterior,  which  at  that  time  was  in- 
superabl}'  repugnant  to  me,  I  had  a  presentiment  that  there 
was  something  good  about  these  people  ;  and,  envious  of  the 
jolly  comradeship  which  united  them,  I  felt  atti'acted  to 
them,  and  wanted  to  get  better  acquainted  with  them,  which 
was  not  a  difficult  thing  for  me  to  do.  I  already  knew  the 
gentle  and  upright  Operoff.  Now,  the  dashing  and  remark- 
ably clever  Zukliin,  who  evidently  reigned  over  this  circle, 
pleased  me  extremely.  He  was  a  small,  stout,  dark-com- 
plexioned man,  with  somewhat  swollen  and  always  shining 
but  extremely  intelligent,  lively,  and  independent  face.  This 
expression  w-as  especially  due  to  his  forehead,  which  was  not 
lofty,  but  arched  over  deep  black  eyes,  his  short,  bristling 
hair,  and  his  thick  black  beard,  which  bore  the  appearance  of 
never  being  shaved.  He  did  not  seem  to  think  of  himself  (a 
thing  which  always  pleased  me  in  peo[)le),  but  it  was  evident 
that  his  mind  was  never  idle.  His  was  one  of  those  expres- 
sive countenances  which  undergo  an  entire  and  sudden 
change  in  3'our  eyes  a  few  hours  after  >ou  have  seen  them 
for  the  first  time.  This  is  what  happened  in  m}'  eyes  with 
Zukhin's  face  towards  the  end  of  the  evening.  New  wrinkles 
suddenly  made  their  appearance  on  his  countenance,  his  eyes 
retreated  still  deeper,  his  smile  became  different,  and  his 
whole  face  was  so  changed  that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I 
recognized  him. 

When  the  meeting  was  at  an  end,  Zukhin,  the  other  stu- 


YOUTH.  373 

dents,  and  I  drank  a  glass  of  A'odka  apiece  in  order  to  sliow 
our  desire  to  be  good  comrades,  and  hardi}'  an}'  remained 
in  tlie  bottle.  Zukhin  inquired  who  had  a  quarter-ruble,  that 
the  old  woman  who  served  him  might  be  sent  for  more 
vodka.  I  offered  my  money  ;  but  Zukhin  turned  to  Operoff 
as  though  he  had  not  heard  me,  and  Operoff,  pulling  out  a 
little  bead  purse,  gave  him  the  monej*  that  was  needed. 

''  See  that  you  don't  get  drunk,"  said  Operoff,  who  did  not 
drink  at  all  himself. 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Zukhin,  sucking  the  marrow 
from  the  mutton-bone  (I  remember  thinking  at  the  time, 
"  He  is  so  clever  because  he  eats  a  great  deal  of  marrow.") 
"By  no  means,"  лveut  on  Zukhin,  smiling  sliglitl}',  and  his 
smile  was  such  that  one  noticed  it  involuntarily,  and  felt 
grateful  to  him  for  the  smile.  "  Though  I  should  get  drunk, 
there's  no  harm.  Now  let's  see,  brothers :  who  will  wager 
that  I'll  come  out  better  than  he  will,  or  he  better  than  I? 
It's  all  ready,  brothers,"  he  added,  tapping  his  head  boast- 
fully. "  There's  Semenoff,  he  would  not  have  broken  down 
if  he  had  not  caroused  so  deeply." 

In  fact,  that  same  gray-haired  Semenoff,  who  had  so  much 
delighted  me  at  the  first  examination  by  being  homelier  than 
myself,  and  who,  after  having  passed  second  in  the  entrance 
examinations,  had  attended  the  lectures  punctually  during 
the  first  month  of  his  student-hood,  had  caroused  before  the 
review,  and  towards  the  end  of  the  year's  course  had  not 
shown  himself  at  the  university  at  all. 

"•  Where  is  he?  "  asked  some  one. 

"  I  have  lost  sight  of  him,"  went  on  Zukhin.  "  The  last 
time  we  were  together  we  ruined  Lisbon.  He  turned  out  a 
magnificent  scamp.  They  sa}^  there  was  some  stor}'  or  other 
afterwards.  That  was  a  head  !  What  fire  there  was  in  that 
man!  AVhat  a  mind !  It's  a  pity  if  he  has  come  to  grief; 
but  he  certainly  has.  He  wasn't  the  kind  of  a  hoy  to  sit  stili 
in  the  university  with  bis  outbreaks." 

After  a  little  further  conversation,  all  rose  to  go,  having 
agreed  to  meet  at  Zukhin 's  on  the  following  daj's,  because 
his  quarters  were  the  nearest  to  all  the  rest.  When  we 
all  emerged  into  the  court^-ard,  I  was  rather  conscience- 
stricken  that  they  should  all  be  on  foot,  while  I  alone  rode  in 
a  drozhky  ;  and  in  my  shame  I  proposed  to  Operoff  to  take 
him  home.  Zukhin  had  come  out  with  us,  and,  borrowing 
a  silver  ruble  of  Operofl",  he  went  off  somewhere  to  visit  for 


374  YOUTH. 

the  night.  On  the  way  Operoflf  told  me  a  grent  deal  ahont 
Zukliin's  character,  and  manner  of  Hfe  ;  and  wlien  I  reached 
yhome  1  did  not  go  to  sleep  for  a  long  time,  for  thinking  of 
the  new  people  with  whom  I  had  become  acquainted.  For  a 
long  while  I  did  not  fall  asleep,  but  wavered,  on  the  one 
hand,  between  respect  for  them  whose  learning,  simplicity, 
honesty,  and  poetry  of  j'outh  and  daring,  inclined  me  in 
their  favor  ;  and  their  iingentleraanly  exterior,  which  repelled 
me,  on  the  other  hand.  In  spite  of  all  this  desire,  it  was  at 
that  time  literally  impossible  for  me  to  associate  with  them. 
Our  ideas  were  entirely  different.  There  was  between  us  an 
abyss  of  shades.  Avhich  constituted  for  me  all  the  charm  and 
reason  of  life,  which  were  utterly  incomprehensible  to  them, 
and  vice  versa.  But  the  principal  reason  why  we  could  not 
l)ossibly  associate  was  the  twenty-ruble  cloth  of  my  coat, 
mj^  drozhky,  and  my  cambric  shirts.  This  reason  had  par- 
ticular weight  with  me.  It  seemed  to  me  tliat  I  insulted 
them  with  the  signs  of  my  prosperity.  I  felt  guilty  before 
them  ;  and  I  could  not  in  any  way  enter  upon  equal,  gen- 
uinely friendly  relations  Avith  them,  because  I  first  humbled 
myself,  then  rebelled  against  my  undeserved  humiliation,  and 
then  proceeded  to  self-confidence.  But  the  coarse,  vicious 
side  of  Zukhiu's  character  had  been,  during  this  period,  to 
such  a  degree  overwhelmed  by  that  powerful -poetry  of 
braver}'  of  which  I  had  a  presentiment  in  him,  that  it  did  not 
affect  me  at  all  unpleasantly. 

For  two  weeks  I  went  nearly  every  evening  to  study  at 
Zukhiu's.  I  studied  very  little  ;  for.  as  I  have  already  said,  I 
had  fallen  behind  my  comrades,  and  as  I  had  not  sufficient 
force  to  study  alone,  in  order  to  catch  up  with  them,  1  onl}' 
pretended  to  listen  and  understand  what  was  read.  It  seemed 
to  me  that  my  companions  divined  my  dissimulation  ;  and  I 
observed  that  they  frequently  skipped  passages  which  they 
knew  themselves,  and.  never  asked  me. 

Every  day  I  became  more  and  more  lenient  towards  the 
disorder  of  this  circle,  I  felt  drawn  towards  it,  and  fouud 
much  that  was  poetical  in  it.  My  word  of  honor  alone, 
vvhich  I  had  given  to  Dmitri,  not  to  go  an^'where  on  a  carouse 
with  them,  restrained  my  desire  to  share  their  pleasures. 

Once  I  attempted  to  brag  before  them  of  my  knowledge  of 
literature,  and  particularly  of  French  literature  ;  and  I  led  the 
conversation  to  that  subject.  It  turued  out,  to  my  amaze- 
ment, that,  although  they  pronounced  titles  of  foreign  books 


TOUTiL  375 

in  Russian  fashion,  that  they  had  read  a  great  deal  more 
than  I,  that  they  knew  and  prized  English  and  even  Spanish 
writers,  and  Lesage  of  Avhom  I  had  never  even  heaixl.  Push- 
kin and  Zhukovsky  were  literature  to  them  (and  not,  as  to 
me,  little  books  in  j-ellow  bindings  which  I  had  read  and 
learned  as  a  child).  They  despised  Dumas,  Sue,  and  Feval 
equally  ;  and  passed  judgment,  Zukhin  in  particular,  upon 
literature  much  better  and  more  clearly  than  I,  as  I  could  not 
but  acknowledge.  Neither  had  I  any  advantage  over  them 
in  my  knowledge  of  music.  Still  more  to  my  amazement, 
Operotf  played  on  the  violin,  another  of  the  students  who 
studied  wdth  us  played  the  violoncello  and  the  piano ;  and 
both  played  in  the  university  orchestra,  knew  music  very  well, 
and  prized  it  highl34  In  a  word,  with  the  exception  of  the 
French  and  German  accent,  they  knew  every  thing  that  I  at- 
tempted to  brag  about  before  them,  much  better  than  I  did, 
and  Avere  not  in  the  least  proud  of  it.  I  might  have  boasted 
of  my  social  position  ;  but,  unlike  Volodya,  I  had  none. 
What,  then,  w\as  that  height  from  which  I  looked  down  upon 
them?  my  acquaintance  with  Prince  Ivan  Ivanitch?  my  pro- 
nunciation of  French?  my  drozhky?  ni}' cambric  shirts?  m}' 
finger-nails?  And  was  not  this  all  nonsense?  —  began  to 
pass  dimly  through  my  mind  at  tim'es,  under  the  influence  of 
envy  for  the  fellowship  and  good-natured  j'outhful  mirth 
which  I  saw  before  me.  They  all  called  each  other  thou. 
The  simplicity  of  their  intercourse  approached  coarseness, 
but  even  beneath  this  rough  exterior  a  fear  of  offending  each 
other  in  any  way  Avas  constantly  visible.  Sccanp  and  'р/д, 
which  were  emplo^-ed  by  them  in  an  affectionate  sense,  only 
made  me  recoil,  and  gave  me  cause  for  inward  ridicule  ;  but 
these  words  did  not  offend  them  in  the  least,  or  prevent  their 
standing  on  the  most  friendly  footing  with  one  another, 
I'hey  were  careful  and  delicate  in  their  dealings  with  one 
another,  as  only  very  poor  and  vary  young  peojile  are.  But 
the  chief  point  was,  that  I  scented  something  bi'oad  and  wild 
in  the  character  of  Zukhin  and  his  adventures  in  Lisl)on.  I 
ii.'id  a  suspicion  that  these  carouses  must  be  something  quite 
different  from  the  sham  with  burnt  rum  and  champagne  iu 
Avhieh  I  had  participated  at  Baron  Z.'s. 


376  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

ZUKHIN    AND    SEMENOFF. 

I  DO  not  know  to  what  class  of  society  Zukhin  lielonged ; 
but  I  know  that  he  was  from  the  C.  gymnasiuu,  had  uo  money 
whatever,  and  apparently  was  not  of  noble  birth.  He  was 
eighteen  at  this  time,  though  he  appeared  much  older.  He 
was  remarkably  clever,  and  particularly  quick  at  grasping  an 
idea ;  it  was  easier  for  him  to  embrace  the  whole  of  a  many- 
sided  subject,  to  foresee  all  its  branches  and  the  deductions 
from  it,  than  to  examine  carefully  by  means  of  knowledge 
the  laws  by  which  these  deductions  are  arrived  at.  He  knew 
that  he  was  clever ;  he  was  proud  of  it,  and  in  consequence 
of  this  pride  he  was  uniformly  simple  and  good-natured  in  his 
intercourse  with  ел-егу  one.  He  must  have  suffered  nuich  in 
the  course  of  his  life.  His  fiery,  sensitive  natui'e  had  already 
succeeded  iu  reflecting  in  itself  love  and  friendship  aud  busi- 
ness and  money.  Although  in  a  restricted  measure,  aud  iu 
the  lower  classes  of  society,  there  was  nothing  for  which,  after 
having  made  proof  of  it,  he  did  not  feel  either  scorn,  or  a 
certain  indifference  aud  inattention,  which  proceeded  from  the 
too  great  facility  Avith  which  he  acquired  every  thing.  Ap- 
parently he  only  grasped  at  ел^егу  novelt}'  for  the  sake  of 
scorning  what  he  had  obtained  after  gaining  his  object,  and 
his  gifted  nature  always  attained  its  goal,  and  had  a  right  to 
its  contempt.  It  was  the  same  thing  with  the  sciences  :  he 
studied  little,  took  no  notes,  yet  had  a  superior  knowledge  of 
mathematics,  and  boasted  of  it,  saying  that  he  could  beat  the 
professor.  He  thought  a  great  deal  of  what  they  taught  was 
nonsense  ;  but  with  his  characteristic,  unconsrionsh/  practical, 
and  roguish  nature,  he  immediately  fell  in  with  what  the  pro- 
fessor required,  and  all  the  professors  liked  him.  He  was 
outspoken  in  his  bearing  with  the  authorities,  yet  the  authori- 
ties respected  him.  He  not  only  did  not  respect  or  love  the 
sciences,  but  he  even  despised  those  who  occupied  themselves 


YOUTH.  377 

serioiisl}-  with  what  he  acquired  so  ea;  ily.  The  sciences,  as 
lie  uiKlerstood  them,  did  not  requii-e  the  tenth  part  of  his 
gifts  ;  life  in  his  position  as  a  student  did  not  offer  any  thing 
to  which  he  could  devote  himself  wholly  :  but,  as  he  said,  his 
fiery,  active  nature  demanded  life,  and  he  gave  himself  up 
to  dissipation  of  such  a  kind  as  his  means  permitted,  and 
yielded  himself  with  ardor  and  a  desire  to  exhaust  it  so  far 
as  lay  in  his  power.  Now,  before  the  examinations,  Operoff's 
prediction  was  fulfilled.  He  disappeared  for  a  couple  of 
weeks,  so  that  we  made  our  preparations  during  the  last  part 
of  the  time  at  another  student's  rooms.  But  at  the  first  ex- 
amination, he  made  his  appearance  in  the  hall,  pale,  haggard, 
and  with  trembling  hands,  and  passed  into  the  second  course 
in  a  brilliant  manner. 

At  tht*  beginning  of  the  course,  there  were  eight  men  in 
the  company  of  carousers,  at  vphose  head  stood  Zukhin. 
Ikonin  and  Semenoff  were  among  the  number  at  first.  The 
former  left  the  company  because  he  could  not  endure  the  wild 
dissipation  to  which  they  gave  themselves  over  at  the  begin- 
ning of  the  year ;  but  the  second  did  not  desert  them, 
because  it  seemed  a  small  thing  to  him.  At  first,  all  the 
men  in  our  class  looked  upon  them  with  a  kind  of  horror, 
and  related  their  pranks  to  each  other. 

The  chief  heroes  of  these  pranks  were  Zukhin,  and,  to- 
wards the  end  of  the  year,  Semenoff.  All  regarded  Semen- 
off, towards  the  end,  with  a  certain  terror ;  and  when  he 
came  to  a  lecture,  which  ver}-  rarely  happened,  there  was  a 
sensation  in  the  auditorium. 

Semenoff  wound  up  his  career  of  dissipation,  just  before 
the  examinations,  in  the  most  original  and  energetic  manner; 
to  which  1  was  a  witness,  thanks  to  my  acquaintance  with 
Zukhin.  This  is  how  it  was.  One  evening,  when  we  had 
just  assembled  at  Znkhin's,  and  Operoft',  having  arranged 
beside  him,  in  addition  to  the  tallow  caudle  in  the  Candle- 
stick, a  tallow  candle  in  a  bottle,  and,  with  his  head  bent 
down  over  the  note-books,  was  beginning  to  read  in  his  shrill 
voice  from  his  minutely  written  notes  on  physics,  the  land- 
lady entered  the  room,  and  informed  Zukhin  that  some  cue 
had  come  with  a  note  for  him.^  .  .   . 

1  The  rest  of  the  story  io  omitted  in  the  liuseiaa. 


378  YOUTH. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

I    MAKE    A    FAILURE. 

At  length  the  first  examination  arrived,  on  the  differential 
and  integral  calculus  ;  but  I  was  in  a  kind  of  a  strange 
mist,  and  had  no  clear  conception  of  what  awaited  me.  It 
occurred  to  me  during  the  evening,  after  enjo3nng  the  society 
of  Zukhin  and  his  comrades,  that  it  was  necessary  to  make 
some  change  in  my  couvietious  ;  that  there  was  something 
about  them  which  was  not  nice,  and  not  just  what  it  should 
be  :  but  iu  the  morning,  in  the  light  of  the  sun,  I  again 
became  comme  il  f<ii(t,  wna  very  well  content  with  that,  and 
desired  no  alterations  in  myself. 

It  was  in  this  frame  of  mind  that  I  came  to  the  first  exam- 
ination. I  seated  myself  on  a  bench  on  the  side  where  sat 
the  princes,  counts,  and  barons,  and  began  to  converse  with 
tliem  in  French  ;  and.  strange  as  it  may  seem,  the  thought 
never  occurred  to  me  that  I  should  presently  be  called  upon 
to  answer  questions  upon  a  subject  which  I  knew  nothing 
about.  I  gazed  coolly  at  those  wlio  went  up  to  be  examined, 
and  I  even  permitted  m^^self  to  make  fun  of  some  of  them. 

"Well,  Grap,  how  goes  it?"  I  said  to  Ilinka  when  he 
returned  from  the  table.     "Did  you  get  frightened?" 

"  ЛУе'П  see  how  you  come  out,"  said  Ilinka,  who  had 
utterly  rebelled  against  my  influence  from  the  day  he  entered 
the  university,  did  not  smile  when  I  spoke  to  him,  and  was 
ill-disposed  towards  me. 

I  smiled  scornfully  at  Ilinka's  replj',  although  the  doubt 
which  he  expressed  alarmed  me  for  a  moment.  But  the 
mist  again  spread  itself  over  this  feeling  ;  and  I  remained 
indifferent  and  absent-minded,  so  that  I  j^romised  to  go  and 
lunch  with  Baron  Z.  at  Materna's  just  as  soon  as  I  had  been 
examined  (as  though  this  was  a  matter  of  the  utmost  insig- 
nificance to  me) .  When  I  was  called  up  with  Ikonin,  I 
arranged  the  skirts  of  my  uniform,  and  stepped  up  to  the 
examination  table  with  perfect  nonchalauce. 


YOUTH.  379 

A  slight  chill  of  terror  oourscd  through  my  back  only 
when  the  3'oung  professor  —  the  same  one  who  had  c^ues- 
tioned  me  at  the  entrance  examination  —  looked  me  straight 
in  the  face,  and  I  touched  the  note-paper  on  which  tlie  ques- 
tions were  written.  Although  Ikonin  took  his  ticket  wiih 
the  same  swaj'ing  of  his  whole  body  as  during  the  preceding 
examinations,  he  answered  after  a  fashion,  though  very 
badly.  And  I  did  what  he  had  done  at  tlie  first  examina- 
tions :  I  did  even  worse  ;  for  I  took  a  second  card,  and  made 
no  reply  at  all.  The  professor  looked  me  compassionately 
in  the  face,  and  said  in  a  firm  but  quiet  voice,  — 

"You  will  not  pass  into  the  second  class,  Mr.  Irteneff. 
It  will  be  better  not  to  present  yourself  for  examination. 
This  course  must  be  weeded  out. — And  the  same  with  you, 
Mr.  Ikonin,"  he  added. 

Ikonin  asked  permission  to  be  re-examined,  as  though  it 
were  an  alms  ;  but  the  professor  replied  that  he  could  not 
accomplish  iu  two  days  what  he  had  not  accomplished  in  the 
course  of  a  year,  and  that  he  could  not  possibly  pass.  Iko- 
nin begged  again  in  a  humble  and  pitiful  manner,  but  the 
professor  again  refused. 

"You  may  go,  gentlemen,"  he  said  in  the  same  low  but 
firm  voice. 

It  was  only  then  that  I  сриМ  make  up  my  mind  to  leave 
the  table ;  and  I  was  ashamed  at  having,  as  it  were,  taken 
part  by  my  silence  in  Ikonin's  prayers.  I  do  not  remember 
how  I  traA^ersed  the  hall,  past  the  students  ;  what  reph'  I 
made  to  their  questions  ;  how  I  made  m}-  way  into  the  ante- 
room, and  got  home. 

j  For  three  days  I  did  not  leave  m}'  room  :  I  saw  no  one  ;  I 
[found  solace  in  tears,  as  in  ni}'  cliildliood,  and  wei)t  a  great 
deal.  I  looked  up  my  pistols,  in  order  that  I  miglit  shoot 
myself  if  I  should  want  to  do  so  very  much.  I  thought  that 
I  Ilinka  Grap  would  spit  in  my  face  when  he  met  me,  and 
that  lie  would  be  quite  right  in  so  doing ;  that  Operoff  would 
rejoice  in  ray  misfortune,  and  tell  everybody  about  it;  that 
Kolpikoff  was  quite  correct  in  insulting  me  at  Jahr's  ;  tliat 
my  stupid  speeches  to  Princess  Kornakova  could  Ьал'е  no 
other  result;  and  so  on,  and  so  on.  All  the  moments  of 
my  life  which  had  been  torturing  to  my  self-love,  and  hard 
to  lioar,  passed  tlu'ough  ni}'  mind  one  after  the  other ;  and  I 
tried  to  blame  some  one  else  for  my  misfortunes.  I  thought 
that  some  one  had  done  this  on  purpose  ;  1  invented  a  whole 


380  TOUTU. 

intrigue  against  myself  ;  I  grumbled  at  the  professors,  at  my 
comrades,  at  Volod3\n,  at  Dmitri,  at  papa  because  he  had 
sent  me  to  the  university ;  I  complained  of  Providence  for 
having  allowed  me  to  live  to  see  such  disgrace.  Finally, 
conscious  of  my  complete  ruin  in  the  ез'сз  of  all  who  knew 
me,  I  begged  papa  to  let  me  enter  the  hussars,  or  go  to  the 
Caucasus.  Papa  was  displeased  with  me  ;  but,  on  seeing 
my  terrible  grief,  he  comforted  me  by  saying  that  it  was  not 
so  very  bad  ;  that  matters  might  be  arranged  if  I  would  take 
a  different  course  of  study.  Volodya  too,  who  did  not  see 
an}-  thing  dreadful  in  my  misfortune,  said  that  in  another 
course  I  should  at  least  not  feel  ashamed  before  my  fellow- 
studeuts. 

Our  ladies  did  not  understand  it  at  all,  and  would  not,  or 
could  not,  comprehend  what  an  examination  was,  —  what  it 
meant,  to  fail  to  pass  ;  and  only  pitied  me,  because  they  saw 
ni}^  grief. 

Dmitri  came  to  see  me  every  day,  and  was  extremely  gen- 
tle and  tender  during  this  whole  period  ;  but,  for  that  very 
reason,  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had  grown  cold  towards  me. 
It  alwa3s  seemed  to  me  a  pain  and  an  insult,  when,  mount- 
ing to  m}"  room,  he  sat  down  close  to  me  in  silence,  with  a 
little  of  that  expression  which  a  doctor  wears  when  he  seats 
himself  at  the  bedside  of  a  very  sick  man.  Sophia  Ivan- 
ovna  and  Varenka  sent  me  books  b}'  him,  which  I  had  for- 
merly wanted,  and  wished  me  to  come  to  see  them  ;  but,  in 
this  verj'  attention,  I  perceived  a  haughty  and  insulting  con- 
descension towards  me,  the  man  who  had  fallen  so  very  low. 
At  the  end  of  three  days,  I  became  somewhat  composed: 
but,  even  up  to  our  departure  for  the  country,  I  did  not 
leave  the  house  ;  and,  thinking  only  of  my  grief,  I  lounged 
idl}'  from  room  to  room,  endeavoring  to  avoid  all  members 
of  the  household. 

I  thought  and  thought ;  and  finally,  late  in  the  evening,  as 
I  was  sitting  down-stairs  and  listening  to  Avdotya  Vasiliev- 
na's  waltz,  I  suddenly  sprang  up,  ran  up-stairs,  got  my  note- 
book, on  which  was  written,  "Rules  of  Life,"  opened  it, 
and  a  moment  of  repentance  and  moral  expansion  came  over 
me.  I  wept,  but  no  longer  with  tears  of  despair.  "When  I 
recovered  myself,  I  decided  to  write  down  my  rules  of  life 
again  ;  and  I  was  firml}-  convinced  that  I  should  never  hence- 
forth do  any  thing  wrong,  nor  spend  a  single  minute  in  idle- 
ness, nor  ever  alter  my  rules. 


YOUTH.  381 

Whether  this  moral  impetus  histcd  long,  in  what  it  con- 
sisted, and  what  new  laws  it  imposed  upon  my  moral  devel- 
opment, I  shall  relate  in  the  following  and  happier  half  of 
шз'  youth. ^ 

1  Thia  last  half  of  the  Memoirs,  if  written,  has  never  been  published. 


5o^  V\^  ■% 


ЖНАТ   ТО   DO? 


THOUGHTS    EVOKED    BY    THE    CENSUS 
OF    MOSCOW 


BY 


COUNT  LYOF  N.  TOLSTOI 


A  NEW  АШ)  AUTHORIZED  TRAXSLATION  FROM  THE 
UNABRIDGED  RUSSIAN  MANUSCRIPT 


NEW    YORK 
THOMAS   Y.  CROWELL   &   CO. 


COPTRIGHT,   ISSe, 

Вт  THOMAS  Y.  CROWELL    &  OO. 


INTRODUCTION. 


Great  social  questions  face  us.  They  are  rising  like 
ominous  storm-clouds  above  the  horizon,  not  only  in  what 
are  sometimes  called  the  "  effete  monarchies  "  of  the  Old 
AVorld,  but  here  in  this  New  World,  in  this  favored  land. 
Thoughtful  men  and  women  are  everywhere  busying  them- 
selves with  their  solution. 

Side  by  side  with  the  portentous  increase  of  wealth,  is  the 
more  portentous  increase  of  destitution  and  crime.  On  the 
one  side,  unheard-of  luxury  ;  on  the  other,  desperate  poverty. 
On  the  one  side,  pride  and  idleness  ;  on  the  other,  beggary 
and  anarchy.  There  are  warnings  in  history,  —  two  mighty 
warnings,  — the  fall  of  Rome,  the  French  Revolution.  Rome 
sowed  the  wind,  and  reaped  the  whirlwind.  The  French 
aristocracy  cried,  ^''Ajjres  nous  le  deluge;'^  but  the  deluge 
came  ichile,  not  after;  it  was  a  deluge  of  blood. 

Modern  civilization  is  sowing  the  whirlwind  :  what  shall 
we  or  our  children  reap  ?  There  are  enormous  wrongs.  Can 
they  be  righted  while  j'et  there  is  time  ?     How  ? 

Various  methods  have  suggested  themselves.  Some  are 
visionary :  some  would  be  practicable  if  men's  eyes  were 
opened. 

.  AVho  doubts,  that,  if  alcoholic  drinks  could  be  banished 
from  the  earth,  the  question  of  poverty  and  crime  would  be 
practically  settled  ? 

Meanwhile,  associated  charities  rally  earnest  men  and 
women,  and  home  missionarjes  devote  their  lives  to  this 
work. 


IV  INTRODUCTION. 

But  still  the  problem  grows  more  ominous. 

A  voice  from  Russia  —  the  voice,  as  it  were,  of  a  prophet 
—  has  proclaimed  another  and  inexorable  way. 

A  nobleman,  rich  and  famous,  a  popular  novelist,  a  great 
land-owner,  with  every  thing  in  his  grasp  that  ambition  might 
suggest,  found  himself  face  to  face  with  this  question. 

He  had  lived  the  idle,  luxurious  life  of  "the  upper 
classes,"  the  world  ол^ег,  and  thought  to  compound  with  liis 
conscience  by  a  dilettante  system  of  тоцез'-giving.  With 
this  charitable  object  in  view,  he  investigated  the  poverty  of 
Moscow,  which  is  exactl}'  like  the  poverty  of  every  other 
city,  —  Paris,  London,  New  York,  Berlin,  Boston,  —  and 
after  sj'stematic  examination  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that 
the  mere  giving  of  money  only  added  to  the  existing  evil. 

Then  the  great  question  took  possession  of  him,  —  Wliat 
Mast  We  Do? 

He  discovered  a  solution  which  he  claims  to  be  ?Ле  solution, 
and  he  has  carried  it  out  in  the  spirit  of  ISakj^a  Muni  and  of 
Christ. 

Absolute  renunciation  in  the  line  of  the  text,  "Whoso 
loseth  his  life  shall  find  it." 

For  Count  Tolstoi,  true  life  is  to  be  found  only  in  labor  — 
bodily  labor,  mental  labor,  moral  labor,  all  co-ordinated  into 
the  one  struggle  with  nature  —  the  struggle  for  existence  iu 
which  every  man  must  lend  a  hand  to  aid  his  neighbor. 

It  is  democracy  pure  and  simple. 

It  is  socialism  in  its  grim  and  classic  but  divine  features. 

It  is  organized  anarchy,  if  one  may  be  permitted  to  use 
hxxch  a  paradox.  No  rulers,  no  armies,  no  money,  no  taxes, 
no  possessions,  no  cities,  but  everj'  man  living  in  accordance 
with  the  Golden  Rule,  eating  his  l)read  in  the  sweat  of  his 
brow  ;  while  art  and  science,  legitimate  when  removed  from 
the  realm  of  private  gain,  shall  serve  to  edupate  the  people, 
4nd  make  them  better. 

The  story  of  Count  Tolstoi's  great  struggle,  and  of  his 


IN  ТВ  OD  UCTION.  V 

arrival  at  the  solution,  is  told  by  himself  in  a  series  of  papers 
collected  under  the  general  head  "  ]Vliat  To  Do  ?  "  or,  more 
correctly,  "  ЛУ1ш1  Must  We  Do  Then?" 

The  theories  presented,  and  the  experiences  related,  were, 
in  some  details,  too  radical  for  an  autocratic  country  lilve 
Russia ;  and  the  authorized  edition  of  Count  Tolstoi's  col- 
lected writings,  contains  only  garbled  extracts  from  this 
work. 

The  work  circulates,  however,  in  Russia,  in  unpublished 
form  ;  and  a  friend  and  disciple  of  the  Count,  having  a  copy 
in  his  possession,  put  it  into  an  English  translation,  with  tlie 
design  that  it  should  be  published  in  America  in  a  form  cheap 
enough  to  reach  the  masses.  Sucli  is  the  explanation  of  the 
present  edition  of  "  WJiat  To  Do?"  It  will  be  found  in  many 
respects  different  from  the  translation  published  last  year. 
It  is  complete  and  unabridged. 

The  reader  must  not  forget  that  it  was  written  for  Russians, 
and  that,  therefore,  it  must  be  judged  with  reference  to  Rus- 
sian conditions.  But  no  one  can  read  these  glowing  pages 
witliout  a  thrill  of  admiration  for  the  honesty  and  manliness 
of  the  great  novelist,  who  has  himself  shoAvn  his  sincerity 
by  adopting  the  manner  of  life  which  he  holds  up  as  the 
ideal  of  the  world. 

His  words  are  eloquent ;  they  ring  often  with  solemn 
warning  ;  and  they  are  to  be  read,  not  for  curiosit}',  as  those 
of  a  fanatic,  but  for  instruction,  as  the  prophecy  of  a  seer. 

N.  II.  DOLE. 

Boston,  Nov.  1,  188S. 


i 


WHAT   MUST  WE   DO   THEX? 


"  And  the  people  asked  him,  saying,  What  shall  we  do  then? 

"  He  answereth  and  saitfa  unto  them,  lie  that  hath  two  coats,  let  him  impart  to 
him  that  hath  none;  and  he  that  hath  meat,  let  him  do  likewise."     (Luke  iii.  10,  11.) 

"Lay  not  up  for  yourselves  treasures  upon  earth,  where  moth  and  rust  doth 
corrupt,  and  where  thieves  break  through  and  steal : 

"  But  lay  up  for  yourselves  treasures  in  heaven,  where  neither  moth  nor  rust 
doth  corrupt,  and  where  thieves  do  not  break  through  nor  steal : 

"  For  where  your  treasure  is,  there  will  your  heart  be  also. 

"  The  light  of  the  body  is  the  eye:  if  therefore  thine  eye  be  single,  thy  whole 
body  shall  be  full  of  light. 

"  But  if  thine  eye  be  evil,  thj-  whole  body  shall  be  full  of  darkness.  If  therefore 
the  light  that  is  in  thee  be  darkness,  how  great  is  that  darkness ! 

"No  man  can  serve  two  masters:  for  either  he  will  hale  the  one,  and  love  the 
other;  or  else  he  will  hold  to  the  one,  and  despise  the  other.  Ye  cannot  serve  God 
and  mammon. 

"  Therefore  I  say  unto  j'ou.  Take  no  thought  for  your  life,  what  ye  shall  eat,  or 
what  ye  shall  drink;  nor  yet  for  your  body,  what  ye  shall  put  on.  Ls  not  the  life 
more  than  meat,  and  the  body  than  raiment?  "     (^fatt.  vi.  ]9-2o.) 

"Therefore  take  no  thought,  saying,  What  shall  we  eat?  or,  What  shall  we 
drink?  or,  Wherewithal. shall  we  be  clothed? 

"  (For  after  all  these  things  do  the  (Jentiles  seek  :)  for  your  heavenly  Father 
knoweth  that  ye  have  need  of  all  these  things. 

"But  seek  ye  first  the  kingdom  of  God,  and  his  righteousness;  and  all  these 
things  shall  bt  added  unto  you."     (Matt.  vi.  31-3.3.) 

"  For  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  throut'h  a  needle's  eye,  than  for  a  rich  man  to 
enter  ii;to  the  kingdom  of  God."     (Luke  xviii.  25.) 


Havixg  passed  the  oreatcr  part  of  my  life  in  tlie  ontintrv. 
I  cnuie  at  length,  in  the  year  18.S1,  to  reside  in  jNIoscow, 
Avhere  I  was  immediately  strnek  with  the  extreme  state  of 
pauperism  in  that  city.  Thonuh  well  aequaintcd  witli  the 
privations  of  the  i>oor  in  rui'al  districts,  I  hud  not  the  faintest 
conception  of  their  actual  condition  in  towns. 

In  ^loscow  it  is  impossible  to  ])ass  a  strt'ct  withont  meet- 
ing  beggars   of   a   peculiar   kind   quite   unlike   tliose   in   the 


2  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

country,  лу1ю  go  about  there,  as  the  saying  is,  "  with  a  hag 
and  the  name  of  Christ." 

The  Moscow  beggars  neitlier  carry  a  bag  nor  ask  for  ahns. 
In  most  cases  when  tliey  meet  you,  they  oul}'  try  to  catch 
your  eye,  and  act  according  to  tlie  expression  of  your 
face. 

1  know  of  one  such,  a  bankrupt  gentleman.  He  is  an  old 
man,  who  advances  slowly,  limping  painfully  on  each  leg. 
IVhen  be  meets  you,  he  limps,  and  makes  a  bow.  If  you 
stop,  he  takes  off  his  cap,  furnished  with  a  cockade,  bows 
again,  and  begs.  If  you  do  not  stop,  he  pretends  only  to  be 
lame,  and  continues  limping  along. 

Tliat  is  a  specimen  of  a  genuine  Moscow  beggar,  and  an 
experienced  one. 

At  first  I  did  not  know  why  such  mendicants  did  not  ask 
openly  ;  but  afterwards  I  learned  why,  without  understanding 
the  reason. 

One  day  I  saw  a  policeman  push  a  ragged  peasant,  all 
swollen  from  dropsy,  into  a  cab.  I  asked  what  he  had  been 
doing,  and  the  policeman  replied,  — 

''  Begging." 

"Is  begging,  then,  forbidden?" 

"  So  it  seems,"  he  answered.  As  the  man  was  being 
driven  away,  I  took  another  cab,  and  followed.  I  wished  to 
find  out  whether  mendicancy  was  really  forbidden,  and  if  so, 
why  it  was?  I  could  not  at  all  understand  how  it  was  pos- 
sible to  forbid  one  man  asking  something  from  another ;  and, 
moreover.  I  had  m^'  doulits  whether  it  was  illegal  in  a  city 
where  it  flourished  to  such  an  extent. 

I  entered  the  police-station  where  the  pauper  had  been 
taken,  and  asked  an  official  armed  with  sword  and  pistol, 
and  seated  at  a  talile,  what  he  had  lieen  arrested  for. 

The  man  looked  up  at  me  sharply,  and  said,  "  \Yhat 
business  is  that  of  yours?  " 

However,  feeling  the  necessity  of  some  explanation,  he 
added,  "  The  authorities  order  such  fellows  to  be  arrested, 
so  I  suppose  it  is  necessary." 

I  went  away.  The  policeman  who  had  brought  the  man 
was  sitting  in  the  window  of  the  ante-room,  studying  his 
note-book.     I  said  to  him, — 

"Is  it  really  true  that  poor  people  are  not  allowed  to  ask 
for  alms  in  Christ's  name?  " 

The  man  atarted,  as  if  waking  up  from  a  sleep,  stared  at 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  3 

mo,  tlicn  relapsed  again  into  a  state  of  stolid  indifference, 
and,  reseating  himself  on  the  window-sill,  said,  — 

"  The  anthorities  reqnire  it,  so  yon  see  it  is  necessary." 

And  as  he  became  again  absorbed  in  his  note-book,  1  went 
down  the  steps  towards  my  cab. 

"Well!  have  they  locked  him  up?"  asked  the  cabman. 
He  had  evidently  become  interested  in  the  matter. 

''  They  have,"  I  answered.     He  shook  his  head. 

''  Is  begging,  tlien,  forbidden  here  in  Moscow?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  he  said. 

"  How,"  I  said,  "  can  a  man  be  locked  up,  for  begging  in 
the  name  of  Christ?  " 

"  Nowadays  things  have  changed,  and  you  see  it  is  for- 
bidden," he  answered. 

Since  that  time,  1  have  seen  policemen  several  times  taking 
paupers  to  the  police-station,  and  thence  to  the  work-house  : 
indeed,  I  once  met  a  whole  crowd  of  these  poor  creatures, 
about  thirty,  escorted  before  and  behind  by  policemen.  I 
asked  what  they  had  been  doing. 

'"'■  Begging,"  was  the  reply. 

It  a|)[)ears  that,  according  to  law,  medicancy  is  forbidden 
in  MosC(iw,  notwithstanding  the  great  number  of  beggars 
one  meets  there  in  every  street,  Avhole  rows  of  them  near  the 
cluu'ches  during  service-time,  and  most  of  all  at  funerals. 
But  why  are  some  caught  and  locked  up,  while  others  are 
let  alone?  This  I  have  not  been  able  to  solve.  Either 
there  are  lawful  and  unlawful  beggars  amongst  them,  or  else 
there  are  so  many  that  it  is  impossible  to  catch  them  all ; 
or,  perhaps,  though  some  are  taken  up,  otiiers  fill  their 
places. 

There  are  a  great  variety  of  such  mendicants  in  Moscow. 
There  are  those  that  make  a  livmg  l)y  begging.  There  ai'e 
also  honestly  destitute  people,  such  as  have  somehow 
chanced  to  reach  Moscow,  and  are  really  in  extreme 
need. 

Amongst  these  last  are  men  and  women  evidentl}^  from  the 
country.  I  have  often  met  such.  Some  of  them  who  had 
fallen  ill,  and  afterward  recovered  and  left  the  hospital, 
could  now  find  no  means,  either  of  feeding  themselves,  or  of 
getting  away  from  jNIoscow  ;  some  of  them,  besides,  had  taken 
to  drink  (such  probal)ly  was  tiie  case  of  the  man  with  dropsy 
wliom  I  met)  ;  some  were  in  good  health.  l)Ut  had  been 
b  irned  out  of  house  and  iionie,  oi'  else  were  very  old,  or  were 


4  WHAT  MUST    ]VE   DO    THEN? 

widowed  or  deserted  women  with  cliildren  ;  some  otliers  were 
sound  as  to  health,  and  quite  capable  of  working. 

These  robust  fellows  especially  interested  me,  —  the  more 
so,  because,  since  my  arrival  in  Moscow.  I  had,  for  the  sake 
of  exercise,  contracted  the  habit  of  going  to  the  Sparrow 
Hills,  and  working  there  with  two  peasants,  who  sawed  wood. 
These  men  were  exactly  like  the  beggars  whom  1  often  met 
in  the  streets.  One  was  called  Peter,  and  was  an  ex-soldier 
from  Kaluga;  the  other,  Simon,  from  Vladimir.  They  pos- 
sessed nothing  save  the  clothes  on  their  backs  :  and  they 
earned,  by  working  very  hard,  from  forty  to  forty-live 
kopeks  a  day  ;  out  of  this  they  both  put  a  little  aside,  —  the 
Kaluga  soldier,  in  order  to  buy  a  fur  coat;  the  Vladimir 
peasant,  in  order  to  get  moue^'  enough  to  return  to  his  home 
in  the  country. 

Meeting,  therefore,  in  the  streets  similar  individuals.  I  was 
particularly  interested  in  them,  and  failed  to  understand  why 
some  begged  whilst  others  worked. 

Whenever  I  met  a  beggar  of  this  description,  I  used  to  ask 
him  how  it  was  that  he  had  come  to  such  a  state.  Once 
I  met  a  strong,  healthy-looking  peasant :  he  asked  alms.  I 
questioned  him  as  to  who  he  was,  and  whence  he  had  come. 

He  told  me  he  had  come  from  Kaluga,  in  search  of  work. 
He  had  at  first  found  some,  such  as  sawing  old  timl>er  into 
fire-wood  ;  but  after  he  and  his  companion  had  finished  the 
job,  though  they  had  continually  looked  for  more  Avork, 
the}' had  not  found  any  ;  his  companion  had  left  him,  and  he 
himself  had  passed  a  fortnight  in  the  utmost  need,  and,  hav- 
ing sold  all  he  possessed  to  obtain  food,  had  not  now  enough, 
even  to  buy  the  tools  necessai-y  for  sawing. 

I  gave  him  the  money  for  a  saw,  and  told  him  where  to  go 
for  work.  I  had  previously  arranged  with  Peter  and  Simon 
that  they  should  accept  a  new  fellow-worker,  and  find  him  a 
companion. 

"■  Be  sure  you  come  !  There  is  plent}'  of  work  to  be  done," 
I  said  on  parting. 

'"  You  may  depend  on  me,"  he  answered.  '^  Do  you 
think  there  can  be  any  pleasure  in  knocking  al)Out,  begging, 
if  I  could  work?  " 

The  man  solemnly  promised  that  he  would  come  ;  and  he 
seemed  to  be  honest,  and  really  meaning  to  work. 

Next  day,  on  coming  to  my  fiicnds,  Peter  and  Simon.  I 
asked  them  whether  the  man  had  arrived.     They  said  \ic  h.u) 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  5 

not ;  nor,  indeed,  did  he  come  at  all :  and  in  this  way  I  was 
frequently  deceived. 

I  have  also  been  deceived  by  those  who  stated  that  they 
only  wanted  a  little  money  to  buy  a  ticket,  in  order  to  return 
home,  aud  whom  I  again  met  in  the  streets  a  few  days  later. 
JMany  of  them  I  came  to  know  well,  and  they  knew  me; 
though  occasionally,  having  forgotten  me,  they  would  repeat 
the  same  false  tale  ;  but  sometimes  they  would  turn  away  ou 
recognizing  me. 

In  this  way  I  discovered,  that,  even  in  this  class  of  men, 
there  are  many  rogues. 

But  still,  these  poor  rogues  were  also  very  much  to  be 
pitied:  they  were  all  of  them  ragged,  hungry  paupers;  they 
are  of  the  soi't  who  die  of  cold  in  the  streets,  or  hang  them- 
selves to  escape  living,  as  the  papers  frequently  tell  us. 


II. 

AYiiEN  I  talked  to  ш}-  town  friends  about  this  pauperism 
which  surrounded  them,  they  always  replied,  "  Oh  !  you  have 
seen  nothing  yet !  You  should  go  to  the  Khitrof  Market, 
and  visit  the  lodging-houses  there,  if  you  want  to  see  the 
genuine  '  Golden  Company.'  " 

One  jovial  friend  of  mine  added,  that  the  number  of  these 
paupers  had  so  increased,  that  they  already  formed,  not  a 
"  (iolden  Company,"  but  a  '^  Golden  Regiment." 

INIy  lively  friend  was  right ;  but  he  would  have  been  yet 
nearer  the  truth  had  he  said  that  these  men  formed,  in 
Moscow,  not  a  company,  nor  a  regiment,  but  a  whole  army, 
—  an  army,  I  should  judge,  of  about  fifty  thousand. 

The  regular  townspeople,  when  they  spoke  to  me  about 
the  pauperism  of  the  city,  always  seemed  to  feel  a  certain 
pl(>asm-e  or  pride  in  being  able  to  give  me  such  precise 
information. 

I  remember  I  noticed,  when  visiting  Loudon,  that  the 
citizens  there  seemed  also  to  find  a  certain  satisfaction  in 
telling  me  about  Loudon  destitution,  as  though  it  were  some- 
thing to  be  proud  of. 

However,  wishing  to  inspect  this  poverty  about  which  I 
had  heard  so  .nuich,  I  turned  my  steps  very  often  towards 
the  Khitrof  Market;  but,  on  eacli  occasion,  I  felt  a  sensation 
of  pain   and  shame.     "  Why  should  you  go  to  look  at  the 


6  WHAT   MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

siifTeiing  of  luiman  I)eini2;s  whom  you  cannot  help?  "  said  one 
voice  witliin  me.  '"•  If  3'ou  live  liere,  and  see  all  tliat  is 
pleasant  iu  town  life,  go  and  see  also  wliat  is  wretched," 
replied  another. 

And  so,  one  cold,  windy  day  in  December,  two  3'ears 
ago,  I  went  to  the  Khitrof  Market,  the  centre  of  the  town 
l)auperism. 

It  was  on  a  week-day,  about  four  in  the  afternoon.  "While 
still  a  gootl  distance  off,  1  noticed  greater  and  greater  num- 
bers of  men  iu  strange  garb,  evidently  not  originally  meant 
for  them  ;  and  in  yet  stianger  foot-apparel,  men  of  a  peculiar 
unhealtliy  complexion,  and  all  apparently  showing  a  remark- 
able indifference  to  all  that  surrounded  tliem. 

Men  in  the  strangest,  most  incongruous  costumes  saun- 
tered along,  evidently  without  the  least  thouglit  as  to  how 
they  might  look  in  the  eyes  of  others.  They  were  all  going 
in  the  same  direction.  Without  asking  the  wa}',  which  was 
unknown  to  me,  I  followed  them,  and  came  to  the  Khitrof 
Market. 

There  I  found  women  likewise  in  ragged  capes,  rough- 
looking  cloaks,  jackets,  boots,  and  goloslies.  Perfectly  free 
and  easy  in  their  manner,  notwithstanding  the  grotesque 
ujonstrosit}'  of  their  attire,  these  women,  old  and  3'oung,  were 
sitting,  bargaining,  strolling  about,  and  abusing  one  another. 

Market-time  having  evidently  passed,  there  were  not 
many  i)eople  there  ;  and  as  most  of  them  were  going  up-hill, 
through  the  market-place,  and  all  iu  the  same  direction,  1 
followed  them. 

The  farther  I  went,  the  greater  became  the  stream  of 
people  flowing  into  the  one  road.  Having  passed  the  mar- 
ket, and  gone  up  the  street,  I  found  that  I  was  following  two 
women,  one  old,  the  other  j^oung.  P)Oth  were  clothed  in 
some  giay  ragged  stuff.  They  were  talking,  as  they  walked, 
about  some  kind  of  business. 

Every  expression  was  unfailingl}'  accompanied  by  some 
obscene  word.  They  were  neither  of  them  drunk,  but  were 
absorbed  with  their  own  affairs ;  and  the  men  passing,  and 
those  about  them,  paid  not  the  slightest  attention  to  their 
language,  which  sounded  so  strange  to  me.  It  appeared  to 
be  the  generally  accepted  manner  of  speech  in  those  parts. 
On  the  left  луе  passed  some  private  night-lodging-houses, 
and  some  of  the  crowd  entered  them  :  others  continued  to 
ascend  the  hill  towards  a  large  corner  house.     The  majorit}' 


iVlIAT  31  и  ST    WE  DO    THEN?  7 

of  the  people  walking  along  with  me  went  into  tliis  house. 
In  front  of  it,  people  all  of  the  same  sort  were  standing  and 
sitting,  on  the  sidewalk  and  in  the  snow. 

At  the  right  of  the  entrance  were  women  ;  at  the  left,  men. 
I  passed  by  the  men  :  X  passed  bj'  the  women  (there  were 
several  hundreds  in  all),  and  stopped  where  the  crowd 
ceased. 

This  building  was  the  "  Liapin  free  night-lodging-house." 
Th3  crowd  was  composed  of  night-lodgers,  waiting  to  be  let 
in.  At  live  o'clock  in  the  evening  this  iiouse  is  opened  and 
the  crowd  admitted.  Hither  came  almost  all  the  people  whom 
1  followed. 

1  remained  standing  where  the  file  of  men  ended.  Those 
nearest  to  me  stared  at  me  till  I  had  to  look  at  them.  The 
remnants  of  garments  covering  their  bodies  were  very 
various :  but  the  one  expression  of  the  eyes  of  all  alike 
seemed  to  be,  "  Why  have  you,  a  man  from  another  world, 
stopped  here  with  us?  Who  are  you?  Are  yon  a  self- 
satisfied  man  of  wealth,  desiring  to  be  gladdened  l)3'the  sight 
of  our  need,  to  divert  yourself  in  j'our  idleness,  and  to  mock 
at  us?  or  are  you  that  which  does  not  and  can  not  exist, — 
a  man  who  pities  us?" 

On  all  their  faces  the  same  question  was  written.  Each 
would  look  at  me,  meet  my  eyes,  and  turn  awa}^  again. 

1  wautetl  to  speak  to  some  one  of  them,  but  for  a  long 
time  I  could  not  summon  up  courage.  However,  CA'cntually 
our  mutual  exchange  of  glances  introduced  us  to  each  other  ; 
and  we  felt  that,  however  widel}^  separated  were  our  social 
positions  in  life,  after  all  we  were  fellow-men,  and  so  ceased 
to  be  afraid  of  one  another. 

Next  to  me  stood  a  peasant  with  a  swollen  face,  and  red 
beard,  in  a  ragged  jacket,  and  worn-out  golosiies  on  his 
naked  feet,  though  there  were  eight  degrees  of  frost. •^  For 
the  third  or  fourth  time  our  ез'ез  met ;  and  I  felt  so  drawn 
to  him  that  I  was  no  longer  ashamed  to  address  him  (to  have 
refrained  from  doing  so  would  have  been  the  only  real 
shame),  and  asked  him  where  he  came  from. 

He  answered  eagerly,  while  a  crowd  began  to  collect  round 
us.  that  he  had  come  from  Smolensk  in  search  of  work,  in 
order  to  lie  able  to  Ьил'  bread,  and  pa}^  his  taxes. 

'•  There  is  no  work  to  be  had  nowadays,"  he  said:  "the 
sokliers  have  got  hold  of   it  all.     So  here   am   I  knocking 

^  liC'aumur. 


8  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

about:  and  God  is  my  witness,  I  have  not  had  any  thing  to 
eat  for  two  days." 

He  said  this  shyly,  with  an  attempt  at  a  smile.  A  seller ' 
of  warm  drinks,  an  old  soldier,  was  standing  near.  I  called 
him,  and  made  him  pour  out  a  glass  for  liiin.  Tiie  peasant 
took  tlie  warm  vessel  in  his  hands,  and,  before  drinking, 
warmed  them  against  the  glass,  trying  not  to  lose  any  of  the 
precious  heat ;  and  whilst  doing  this  he  related  to  me  his 
story. 

The  adventures  of  these  people,  or  at  least  the  stories 
which  they  tell,  are  almost  always  the  same  :  He  had  had 
a  little  work  ;  then  it  had  ceased  :  and  here,  in  the  night-lodg- 
ing-house, his  i)urse,  containing  his  money  and  passport,  iiad 
been  stolen  from  him.     Now  he  could  not  leave  Moscc^w. 

He  told  me  that  during  the  day  he  warmed  himself  in 
public-houses,  eating  any  stale  crust  of  liread  which  might 
be  given  him.  His  night's  lodging  here  in  Liapiu's  house 
cost  him  nothing. 

He  was  only  waiting  for  the  round  of  the  police-sergeant 
to  lock  him  up  for  being  without  his  passjiort,  when  he  would 
be  sent  on  foot,  with  a  party  of  men  similarly  situated,  to 
the  place  of  his  birth. 

"They  say  the  inspection  will  take  place  on  Thursday, 
when  I  shall  be  taken  up  ;  so  I  must  try  and  keep  on  until 
then."  (The  prison  and  his  compulsory  journey  appeared 
to  him  as  the  "promised  land.")  AVhile  he  was  speaking, 
two  or  three  men  in  the  crowd  said  they  were  also  in  exactly 
the  same  situation. 

A  thin,  pale  youth,  with  a  long  nose,  only  a  shirt  upon  his 
back,  and  that  torn  about  the  shoulders,  and  a  tattered  cap 
on  his  head,  edged  his  way  to  me  through  the  crowd.  He 
was  shivering  violently  all  the  time,  but  tried,  as  he  caught 
my  eye,  to  smile  scornfully  at  the  peasant's  talk,  thinking 
thus  to  show  his  superiority. 

I  offered  him  some  drink. 

He  warmed  his  hands  on  the  tumbler  as  the  other  had  done  ; 
but  just  as  he  began  to  speak,  he  was  shouldered  aside  by 
a  big,  black,  hook-nosed,  bare-headed  fellow,  in  a  thin  shirt 
and  waistcoat,  who  also  asked  for  some  drink. 

Then  a  tall  old  man,  with  a  thin  beard,  in  an  overcoat 
fastened  round  the  waist  with  a  cord,  and  in  matting-shoes, 
had  some.     He  was  drunk. 

1  A  sbiten-seller :  нЬНеп  is  <i  hot  drink  made  of  herbs  or  siiices  and  molasses. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Til  EX?  9 

Then  came  a  little  man,  Avitli  a  swollen  face  and  teary  eyes, 
in  a  coarse  brown  jacket,  and  with  knees  protruding  through 
his  torn  trousers,  and  knocking  against  each  other  with  cold. 
He  shivered  so  that  he  could  not  hold  the  glass,  and  spilled 
the  contents  over  his  clothes  :  the  others  took  to  abusing 
him,  but  he  only  grinned  miseralily,  and  shivered. 

After  him  came  an  ugly,  deformed  man  in  rags,  and  Avitli 
bare  feet.  Then  an  individual  of  the  officer  type  ;  another 
belonging  to  the  church  class  ;  then  a  strange-looking  being 
without  a  nose,  —  and  all  of  them  hungry,  cold,  suppliant,  and 
humble,  —  crowded  round  me,  and  stretched  out  their  hands 
for  the  glass  ;  but  the  drink  was  exhausted.  Then  one  man 
asked  for  money  :  I  gave  him  some.  A  second  and  a  third 
followed,  till  the  whole  crowd  pressed  on  me.  In  the  general 
confusion  the  gatekeeper  of  the  neighboring  house  shouted 
to  the  crowd  to  clear  the  pavement  before  his  house,  and  the 
peoi)le  sulunissively  obej'ed. 

Some  of  them  undertook  to  control  the  tumult,  and  took 
me  under  their  protection.  They  attem[)ted  to  drag  me  out 
of  the  crush.  But  the  crowd  that  formerly  had  lined  the 
pavement  in  a  long  file,  now  had  become  condensed  about 
me.  Every  one  looked  at  me  and  begged  ;  and  it  seemed  as 
if  each  face  were  more  pitiful,  harassed,  and  degraded  than 
the  other.  I  distributed  all  the  money  I  had, — only  about 
twenty  rubles, — and  entered  the  lodging-house  with  the 
crowd.  The  house  was  enormous,  and  consisted  of  four  paits. 
In  the  upper  stories  were  the  men's  rooms;  on  the  ground- 
floor  the  women's.  I  went  first  into  the  women's  dormitory, 
—  a  large  room,  filled  with  beds  resembling  the  bertlis  in  a 
third-class  railway-carriage.  They  were  arranged  in  two 
tiers,  one  above  the  other. 

Strange-looking  women  in  ragged  dresses,  without  jackets, 
old  and  young,  kept  coming  in  and  occupying  places,  some 
below,  others  climbing  above.  Some  of  the  elder  ones 
crossed  themselves,  pronouncing  the  name  of  the  founder  of 
the  refuge.     Some  laughed  and  swore. 

I  went  up-stairs.  There,  in  a  similar  way,  the  men  had 
taken  their  places.  Amongst  them  I  recognized  one  of  those 
to  whom  I  had  given  money.  On  seeing  him  I  suddenly  felt 
horribl}'  ashamed,  and  made  haste  to  leave. 

And  with  a  sense  of  having  committed  some  crime,  I 
returned  home.  There  I  entered  along  the  carpeted  steps 
into  the  rug-covered  luill,  and,  having  taken  off  my  fur  coat, 


10  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

sat  down  lo  я  meal  of  five  courses,  served  by  two  footmen  in 
Jnery.  With  wliite  tics  and  white  gloves.  And  a  scene  of  the 
past  came  suddenly  before  me.  Thirty  years  ago  I  saw 
a  man's  head  cut  off  under  the  guillotine  \n  Paris  before  a 
crowd  of  thousands  of  spectators.  I  Avas  aware  that  the 
man  hud  been  a  great  ciiminal  :  I  was  acquainted  with  ;dl 
the  aignments  in  justification  of  capital  punishment  for  such 
offences.  I  saw  this  execution  carried  out  deliberately :  but 
at  the  moment  that  the  head  and  body  were  severed  from 
each  other  by  the  keen  blade,  I  gasi)ed,  and  realized  in  ever}' 
lil)re  of  my  being,  that  all  the  arguments  which  1  had  hitherto 
heard  n])on  cai)ital  punishment  were  wickedly  false  ;  that,  no 
matter  how  many  might  agree  as  to  its  being  a  lawful  act,  it 
was  literally  murder ;  whatever  other  title  men  might  give 
it.  they  thus  had  virtually  committed  murder,  that  W4)rst  of  all 
crimes :  and  there  was  I,  both  by  my  silence  and  my  non- 
interference, an  aider,  abetter,  and  participator  in  the  sin. 

Similar  convictions  were  now  again  forced  upon  me  when 
I  l)eheld  the  misery,  cold,  hunger,  and  humiliation  of  thou- 
sands of  my  fellow-men.  I  realized  not  only  with  my  braiu, 
but  in  every  pulse  of  my  soul,  that,  whilst  there  were  thou- 
sands of  such  sufferers  in  Moscow,  I,  with  tens  of  tliousands 
of  others,  filled  myself  daily  to  repletion  with  luxurious 
dainties  of  eveiy  description,  took  the  tenderest  care  of  my 
horses,  and  clothed  my  very  floors  with  velvet  cari)ets  ! 

"Whatever  the  wise  and  learned  of  the  world  might  say 
about  it,  however  unalterable  the  course  of  life  might  seem  to 
be,  the  same  evil  was  continually  being  enacted,  and  I,  by  my 
own  personal  habits  of  luxury,  was  a  promoter  of  that  evil. 

The  difference  between  the  two  cases  was  only  this :  that 
in  the  first,  all  I  could  have  done  would  ha^^e  been  to  shout 
out  to  the  murderers  standing  near  the  guillotine,  who  were 
accomplishing  the  deed,  that  they  were  committing  a  murder, 
though  of  course  knowing  that  my  interference  would  have 
been  in  vain.  Whereas,  in  this  second  case,  I  might  have 
given  away,  not  only  the  drink  and  the  small  sum  of  money  I 
had  with  me.  b:it  also  the  coat  from  off  my  shoulders,  and 
all  that  I  possessed  at  home.  Yet  I  had  not  done  so, 
and  therefore  felt,  and  feel,  and  can  never  cease  to  feel, 
myself  a  partaker  in  a  crime  which  is  continually  being  com- 
mitted, so  long  as  I  have  superfluous  food  whilst  otliers  have 
none,  so  long  as  1  have  two  coats  whilst  there  exists  one 
man  Avithout  any. 


WHAT  MUST    \['E   DO    THEN?  11 


III. 

On  the  same  evening  that  I  retin-ned  from  Liapin's  honse, 
I  imparted  \r\y  impressions  to  a  friend  :  and  he,  a  resident  of 
tlie  town,  began  to  explain  to  me,  not  without  a  certain 
satisfaction,  that  this  was  the  most  natural  state  of  things  in 
a  town  ;  that  it  was  only  owing  to  my  i)rovincialism  that  I 
found  any  thing  remarkable  in  it;  and  that  it  had  ever 
bren.  ami  ever  would  be,  so,  such  betng  one  of  the 
iiK'vitalilo  conditions  of  civilization.  In  London  it  was 
yet  worse,  .  .  .  therefore  there  could  be  nothing  wrong 
ai)(.)ut  it,  and  there  was  nothing  to  be  disturbed  and  tronl)led 
about. 

1  began  to  argue  with  my  friend,  lint  with  sucli  warmth 
nnd  so  angrily,  that  my  wife  rushed  in  from  the  adjoining 
loom  to  ask  what  had  happened.  It  appeared  that  I  had, 
williout  bemg  aware  of  it,  shouted  out  in  an  agonized  voice, 
gesticulating  wildly,  "  We  should  not  go  on  living  in  this 
way!  we  must  not  live  so!  we  have  no  right!"  I  was 
u'l)uked  for  my  unnecessary  excitenient ;  I  was  told  that  I 
could  not  talk  quietly  upon  any  question  ;  that  I  was  irrita- 
ble ;  and  it  was  pointetl  out  to  me  that  the  existence  of  such 
miseiy  as  I  had  witnessed,  should  in  no  way  be  a  reason 
for  embittering  the  life  of  my  home-circle. 

I  felt  thai  this  was  perfectly  just,  and  held  my  tongue  ; 
but  in  the  depth  of  my  soul  I  knew  that  I  was  right,  and  I 
could  not  quiet  my  conscience. 

'Y\\Q  town  life,  which  had  previously  seemed  alien  and 
strange  to  me,  became  now  so  hateful  that  all  the  indul- 
gences of  a  luxurious  existence,  in  which  I  had  formerly 
delighted,  now  served  to  torment  me. 

However  much  I  tried  to  find  some  kind  of  excuse  for  my 
mode  of  life,  I  could  not  contemplate  without  irritation 
either  my  own  or  other  people's  drawing-rooms,  nor  a  clean, 
richly  served  dinner-table,  nor  a  carriage  with  well-fed 
coachman  and  horses,  nor  the  shops,  theatres,  and  enter- 
tainments. 1  could  not  help  seeing,  in  contrast  with  all  this, 
those  hungiy,  shivering,  and  degraded  inhabitants  of  the 
night  lodging-house.  And  I  could  never  free  myself  from 
the  thought  that  these  two  conditions  were  inseparable  — 
that  the  one  iMoceeded  from  the  otiier.  I  remember  that  the 
sense  of  culpability  which  I  had  felt  from  the  first  moment 


12  WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    TIlENf 

never  left  me  ;  Imt  with  this  feeling  another  soon  became 
mingled,  which  lessened  the  tirst. 

Wlien  I  talked  to  my  intimate  friends  and  acqnaintances 
abont  my  impressions  on  Liapin's  house,  the}'  all  answered 
in  the  same  way.  and  expressed  besides  their  appreciation  of 
my  kindness  and  tender-heartedness,  and  gave  me  to  under- 
stand that  the  sight  had  so  imi)ressed  me  because  I,  Leo 
Tolstoi,  was  kind-hearted  and  good.  And  I  willingly 
allowed  myself  to  believe  it. 

The  natural  consequence  of  this  was,  that  the  first  keen 
sense  of  self-reproach  and  shame  was  blunted,  and  was  re- 
placed b}^  a  sense  of  satisfaction  at  my  own  virtue,  and  a 
desire  to  make  it  known  to  others.  "  It  is  in  truth,"  I  said 
to  myself,  "  probably  not  my  connection  with  a  luxurious 
life  which  is  at  fault,  but  the  unavoidable  circumstances  of 
life.  And  thus  a  change  in  my  particular  life  cannot  alter 
the  evil  which  I  have  seen." 

In  changing  my  own  life,  I  should  only  render  m^'self  and 
those  nearest  and  dearest  to  me  miserable,  Avhilst  that  other 
miseiT  would  remam  the  same ;  and  therefore  my  object 
should  be,  not  to  alter  my  own  way  of  living,  as  I  had  at 
first  imagined,  but  to  try  as  much  as  was  in  my  power  to 
ameliorate  the  position  of  those  unfortunate  ones  who  had 
excited  my  compassion. 

The  whole  matter,  I  reasoned,  lies  in  the  fact  that  I,  being 
an  extremely  kind  and  good  man,  wish  to  do  good  to  my 
fellow-men.  And  I  began  to  arrange  a  plan  of  philanthropic 
activitj'  in  which  I  might  exhibit  all  my  virtues.  I  must, 
however,  here  remark,  that,  while  planning  this  charitalile 
effort,  in  the  depth  of  m}-  heart  I  felt  that  I  was  not  doing 
the  right  thing  ;  but,  as  too  often  happens,  reason  and  im- 
agination were  stitling  the  voice  of  conscience.  About  this 
time  the  census  was  being  taken,  and  it  seemed  to  me  a  good 
opportunity  for  instituting  that  charitable  organization  iu 
which  I  Avauted  to  shine. 

I  was  acquainted  with  many  philanthropic  institutions  and 
societies  already  existing  in  Moscow,  but  all  their  activity 
seemed  to  me  both  wrongly  directed  and  insignificant  in 
comparison  with  what  I  myself  wished  to  do.  And  this  was 
what  I  invented  to  excite  sj-mpathy  amongst  the  rich  people 
for  the  poor :  I  l)egan  to  collect  monev,  and  enlist  men  who. 
wished  to  help  in  the  work,  and  who  would,  in  company  with 
the  census  otHcers,  visit  all  the  nests  of  pauperism,  entering 


WHAT  Л  и  ST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  13 

into  relations  with  the  poor,  finding  ont  the  details  of  tlieir 
needs,  hel])ing  them  with  money  and  work,  sending  them  ont 
of  Moscow,  placing  their  children  in  schools,  and  their  old 
men  and  women  in  liomes  and  houses  of  refuge. 

I  thought,  moreover,  that,  from  those  who  undertook  this 
луогк,  there  could  be  formed  a  permanent  society,  Avhich, 
dividing  ])etweeu  its  members  the  various  districts  of  Mos- 
cow, would  take  care  that  new  cases  of  want  and  misery 
should  be  avoided,  and  so  l)y  degrees  stifle  paui)erism  at  its 
very  birth,  accomplishing  their  task,  not  so  much  by  cure,  as 
by  prevention. 

I  already  saw  in  the  future,  begging  and  poverty  entirely 
disa[)pearing,  I  having  been  the  means  of  its  accomi)lislnnent. 
Then  all  of  us  who  were  rich  could  go  on  living  in  all  our 
luxury  as  before,  dwelling  in  fine  houses,  eating  dinners  of 
live  courses,  driving  in  our  carriages  to  theatres  and  enter- 
tainments, and  no  longer  being  harassed  b}'  such  sights  as  I 
had  witnessed  at  Liapin's  house. 

Having  invented  this  plan,  1  wrote  an  article  about  it ;  and, 
before  even  giving  it  to  be  printed,  I  went  to  those  acquaint- 
ances from  whom  I  hoped  to  obtain  co-operation,  and  ex- 
l^ounded  to  all  whom  I  visited  that  day  (chiefly  the  rich)  the 
ideas  I  afterwards  pul)lished  in  my  article. 

I  proposed  to  [)ro(it  b}'  tiie  census  in  order  to  stud}'  tlie 
state  of  pauperism  in  Moscow,  and  to  help  to  exterminate  it 
by  personal  effort  and  money,  after  which  we  might  all  wiih 
a  quiet  conscience  enjoy  our  usual  pleasures.  All  listened 
to  me  attentively  and  seriously  ;  but,  in  every  case,  I  re- 
marked that  the  moment  my  hearers  came  to  understand 
what  1  was  driving  at,  they  seemed  to  become  uncomfortable 
and  somewhat  embarrassed.  But  it  was  principally,  I  feel 
sure,  on  my  account ;  because  they  considered  all  that  I  said 
b)  be  folly.  It  seemed  as  though  some  other  motive  compelled 
my  listeners  to  agree  for  the  moment  with  m}'  foolishness. 
— '' Oil,  yes!  Certainly.  It  would  be  delightful,"  tliey 
said  :  "  of  course  it  is  impossil)le  not  to  sympathize  with 
you.  Your  idea  is  si)lendid.  I  myself  have  had  the  same  ; 
but  .  .  .  people  here  are  so  indifferent,  that  it  is  hardly  rea- 
sonable to  expect  a  great  success.  However,  as  far  as  I  am 
concerned,  I  am,  of  course,  ready  to  sluire  in  tlie  enterpi'ise." 

Similar  answers  I  received  from  all.  They  consented,  as 
it  appeared  to  me,  not  because  tliev  were  pei'suaded  by  my 
arguments,  nor   in  com[»liaiU4'  with    my  re(jur.st,  l)ut  becau.se 


14  WHAT  3Ib'ST    WE  DO    THEN? 

of  some  exterior  reason,  which  rendered  it  impossille  for 
them  to  refuse. 

1  remarked  this  partly  because  none  of  tliose  who  promised 
me  their  help  in  the  form  of  money,  defined  the  sum  they 
meant  to  give  ;  so  that  I  had  to  name  the  amount  by  askin<>;. 
'•  iMay  I  count  upon  3'ou  for  twenty-five,  or  one  hundred,  or 
two  Inmdred,  or  three  hundi'ed,  I'ubles?"  And  not  one  cf 
them  paid  the  money.  1  draw  attention  to  this  fact,  because. 
when  people  are  going  to  pay  for  what  the}'  are  anxious  tc 
have,  the}'  are  generally  in  haste  to  give  it.  Suppose  it  wyw 
to  secure  a  box  to  see  Sarah  Bernhardt,  the  money  is  innne- 
diately  produced.  Here,  however,  of  all  who  agreed  to  give, 
and  expressed  their  sympathy,  no  one  immediately  produced 
the  amount,  but  merel}'  silently  acquiesced  in  the  sum  1  hap- 
pened to  name. 

In  the  last  house  I  visited  that  day,  there  was  a  large  party. 
The  mistress  of  the  house  had  for  some  3'eai's  been  emi)loye(l 
in  works  of  charity.  Several  carriages  were  waiting  at  the 
door  of  the  house.  Footmen  in  expensive  liveries  were 
seated  in  the  hall.  In  the  spacious  drawing-room,  ladies, 
old  and  3'oung,  wearing  rich  dresses  and  ornaments,  were 
talking  to  some  3"oung  men,  and  dressing  up  small  dolls, 
destined  for  a  lotteiy  in  aid  of  the  poor. 

The  sight  of  this  drawing-room,  and  of  the  people  assem- 
bled there,  struck  me  very  painfully.  For  not  onl}'  was  their 
property  worth  several  million  rubles  ;  not  only  could  the 
interest  on  the  capital  spent  here  on  dresses,  laces,  bronzes, 
jewels,  carriages,  horses,  liveries,  footmen,  exceed  a  hundred 
times  the  value  of  these  ladies'  work  ;  not  only  was  this  tlie 
case,  —  but  even  the  expenses  caused  b}'  this  very  party  ol 
ladies  and  gentlemen,  the  gloves,  linen,  candles,  tea,  sugar, 
cakes,  all  this  represented  a  sum  a  hundred  times  exceed- 
ing the  value  of  the  work  done. 

1  saw  all  tins,  and  therefore  might  have  understood  thai 
here,  at  all  events,  I  should  not  find  sympathy  for  my  plan ; 
but  I  had  come  in  order  to  give  an  invitation,  and,  howevei 
painful  it  was  to  me,  I  said  what  I  wished  to  say,  repeating 
almost  the  words  of  my  article. 

One  lady  present  offered  me  some  money,  adding  that, 
owing  to  her  sensibilities,  she  did  not  feel  strong  enough  to 
visit  the  poor  herself,  but  that  she  would  give  hell)  in  this 
foim.  How  nmch  money,  and  when  she  would  give  it,  she 
did   not  s:iy.     Another  lady  and  a  young  man  offered  their 


WHAT  MUST    ]УЕ  DO    THEN?  15 

sen'ices  in  visiting  the  poor,  but  I  did  not  profit  hy  tlioir 
offer.  The  princi[)al  person  I  addressed,  told  me  that  it 
would  be  impossil)le  to  do  much,  because  the  means  were 
not  forthcoming.  And  the  means  were  scarce,  because  all 
the  rich  men  in  Moscow  who  were  known,  and  could  be 
counted  upon,  had  given  all  it  was  possible  to  get  from  them  ; 
their  charities  having  already  been  rewarded  with  titles, 
medals,  and  other  distinctions,  this  being  the  only  effectual ' 
method  of  insuring  success  in  the  collection  of  money,  — 
namel}',  to  obtain  new  honors  from  the  authorities,  and  that 
being  very  diflicult. 

Having  returned  home,  I  went  to  bed,  not  only  with  a  pre- 
sentiment that  nothing  would  result  from  my  idea,  but  also 
with  the  shameful  consciousness  of  having,  during  the  whole 
day,  been  doing  something  vile  and  contemptible.  However, 
I  did  not  desist. 

First,  the  work  had  been  begun,  and  false  shame  would 
have  prevented  my  giving  it  up ;  secondly,  not  only  the 
success  of  the  enterprise  itself,  but  even  my  occupation  in 
it,  afforded  me  the  possibility  of  continuing  to  live  in  my 
usual  wa}' :  whereas,  the  failure  of  this  enterprise  would 
have  put  me  under  the  constraint  of  giving  up  m}'  present 
mode  of  life,  and  of  seeking  another.  0Г  this,  1  was  un- 
consciously afraid  :  therefore,  I  refused  to  listen  to  my  inner 
voice,  and  continued  what  I  had  begun. 

Having  sent  my  article  to  be  printed,  I  read  a  proof-copy 
at  a  census-meeting  in  the  town-hall,  hesitatingly,  and  blush- 
ing till  my  cheeks  burned  again,  so  uncomfortable  did  I  feel. 

1  saw  that  all  m}'  heai'ers  felt  equally  uncomfortiible. 

Upon  my  question,  whether  the  managers  of  the  census 
would  accept  my  proposal  that  they  should  remain  at  their 
posts  in  lorder  to  form  a  link  between  society  and  those  iu 
need,  an  awkward  silence  ensued. 

Then  two  of  those  present  made  speeches,  which  seemed 
to  mend  the  awkwardness  of  my  suggestions  :  sympathy  for 
me  was  expressed  along  Avith  their  general  approbation. 
They,  however,  pointed  out  the  impracticability  of  my 
scheme.  Every  one  seemed  more  at  ease  :  but  aftei'wards, 
wlien,  still  wishing  to  succeed,  I  asked  each  district  man- 
ager separately,  whether  he  was  willing  during  the  census 
to  investigate  the  needs  of  the  poor,  and  afterwards  remain 
at  his  post  in  order  to  form  this  link  between  the  poor 
and    the    rich,    all    again    were    coufouuded  ;    it    seeuied    as 


16  WUAT  Ml'^T    UE  1)0    THEN? 

though  their  looks  sfiid,  "Why,  out  of  personal  regard  for 
you,  we  have  listei>ed  to  your  silly  proposition  ;  but  here  you 
come  out  with  it  again  !  "  Such  was  the  expression  of  their 
faces,  but  in  words  they  told  me  that  they  consented  ;  and 
two  of  them,  separately,  but  as  though  they  had  agreed 
together,  said  in  the  same  words,  "•  We  regaixl  it  as  our 
moral  duty  to  do  so."  Tiie  same  impression  was  produced 
by  my  words  upon  the  students,  who  had  volunteered  to  act 
as  clerks  during  the  census,  when  I  told  them  that  they  might 
then,  besides  their  scientific  pursuits,  accomplish  also  a 
charitable  work. 

When  we  talked  the  matter  over,  I  noticed  that  they  лусге 
shy  of  looking  me  straiglit  in  the  face,  as  one  often  hesitates 
to  look  into  the  face  of  a  good-natured  шмп  wlio  is  talking 
nonsense.  The  same  impression  Avas  produced  by  ni}^  article 
upon  the  editor  of  tlie  paper  when  I  handed  it  to  him  ;  also 
upon  my  son,  my  Avife,  and  various  other  people.  Ever\'  one 
seemed  embarrassed,  but  all  found  it  necessary  to  approve 
of  tiie  idea  itself ;  and  all,  immediately  after  this  a[)proba- 
tion,  began  to  express  their  doubts  as  to  the  success  of  the 
plan,  and,  for  some  reason  or  other  (all  without  exception), 
.took  to  condemning  the  indifference  and  coldness  of  society 
and  of  the  world,  though  evidently  excluding  themselves. 

In  the  depth  of  my  soul,  I  continued  to  feel  that  all  this 
was  not  the  right  thing,  that  nothing  would  come  of  it ;  but 
the  article  had  been  printed,  and  I  had  agreed  to  take  part 
in  the  census.  1  had  put  a  i)lan  into  action,  and  now  the 
plan  itself  drew  me  along. 


IV. 

In  accordance  with  my  request,  the  part  of  the  town 
was  assigned  to  me  for  the  census  Avhich  contained  the 
houses  generally  known  under  the  name  of  the  Rzhanoff 
lodgings.  I  had  long  before  heard  that  the}'  were  consid- 
ered to  be  the  lowest  circle  of  povert}'  and  vice,  and  that 
was  the  reason  that  I  asked  the  officers  of  the  census  to 
as>;ign  me  this  district. 

]\Iy  desire  Avas  gratified. 

Having  received  the  appointment  from  the  Town  Council, 
I  went,  a  few  daj-s  before  the  census,  alone,  to  inspect  my 
district.      With  the  help  of  a  plan  I  was  furnished  with,   I 


WHAT   MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  17 

soon  found  the  Rzlianoff  Houses,  —  approached  b}'  a  street, 
\Nliich  terminated  on  the  left-liand  side  of  a  gloomy  building 
■without  any  apparent  entrance.  From  the  aspect  of  this 
house,'  I  guessed  it  was  the  one  I  was  in  search  of.  On  de- 
scending the  street,  1  had  come  across  some  boys,  from  ten 
to  fourteen  3'ears  old,  in  short  coats,  sliding  down  the  frozen 
gutter,  some  on  their  feet,  others  upon  a  single  skate. 

The  boys  were  ragged,  and,  like  all  town  boys,  sharp  and 
bold.  I  stopped  to  look  at  them.  An  old  woman  in  torn 
clothes,  with  hanging  yellow  cheeks,  came  round  the  corner. 
She  was  going  up-hill,  and,  like  a  horse  out  of  wind,  gasped 
painfully  at  every  step  ;  and,  when  abreast  of  me,  she  stopped 
with  hoarse,  choking  breath.  In  any  other  place,  this  old 
woman  would  have  asked  alms  of  me,  but  here  she  onl}'^ 
began  to  talk. 

''Just  look  at  them!"  she  said,  pointing  to  the  sliding 
boys;  "always  at  mischief!  They  will  become  the  same 
Kzlianoff  good-for-notiiings  as  their  fathers."  One  boy,  in 
an  overcoat  and  visorless  cap,  overhearing  her  words,  stopi)ed. 
'•  You  sliut  up  !  "  he  shouted.  "  You're  only  an  old  Kzhanoff 
goat  yourself  !  " 

1  asked  tlie  boy  if  he  lived  here.  "  Yes,  and  so  does  she. 
Slie  stole  some  boots,"  he  called  out,  and,  pushing  himself 
otf,  ^lid  on. 

The  woman  gave  vent  to  a  torrent  of  abuse,  interrupted 
by  her  cough.  During  this  squabble  an  old  white-haired 
ni;in,  all  in  rags,  came  down  the  middle  of  the  street,  brand- 
ishing his  firms,  and  carrying  in  one  hand  a  bundle  of  small 
loaves,  lie  seemed  to  have  just  fortified  himself  with  a  glass 
of  iicpior.  lie  had  evidentl}-  heaid  the  old  woman's  abuse, 
nnd  took  her  side. 

"•  I'll  give  it  you,  you  little  devils,  yon  !  "  he  cried  out, 
pretending  to  i-ush  after  them  ;  and,  having  passed  behind  me, 
he  stepijc'il  upon  the  pavement.  If  von  saw  this  old  man  in 
a  fashionable  street,  you  would  be  struck  with  his  air  of  de- 
crepitude, fee!)leness,  and  poverty.  Here  he  ajjpeared  in 
tiie  character  of  a  пкч'гу  workman,  ivluruing  from  his  day's 
labor. 

I  followed  him.  He  turned  round  the  corner  to  the  left 
into  an  alley  ;  and,  having  passed  the  fi'ont  of  tiie  house  and 
the  gate,  he  disappeared  through  the  door  of  an  inn.  Into 
this  alley  the  doors  of  the  latter,  a  public-house,  and  several 
sniidl  eating-houses,  opened.      It  was  the  Kzhanoff  Houses. 


18  ЦЧ1АТ  31  и  ST    WE  DO    THEN? 

Every  thing  was  gray,  dirt}',  and  foul-smelling, — buildings, 
lodgings,  courts,  and  people.  Most  of  those  I  met  here  were 
in  tattered  clothes,  half  naked.  Some  were  passing  along, 
others  were  running  from  one  door  to  another.  Two  were 
bargaining  about  some  rags.  I  went  round  the  whole  build- 
ing, down  another  lane  and  a  court,  and,  having  returned, 
stopped  at  the  archway  of  the  Rzhanoff  Houses. 

I  wanted  to  go  in,  and  see  what  was  going  on  inside,  but 
the  idea  made  me  feel  painfully  awkward.  What  should  1 
say  if  the}'  asked  me  Avhat  I  had  come  for? 

However,  after  a  little  hesitation,  I  went  in.  The  moment 
I  entered  the  court,  I  was  conscious  of  a  most  revolting 
odor.  The  court  was  dreadfully  dirty.  I  turned  round  the 
corner,  and  at  the  same  instant  heard  the  steps  of  people 
running  along  the  boards  of  the  gallery,  and  thence  down  the 
stairs. 

First  a  gaunt-looking  woman,  with  tucked-up  sleeves,  a 
faded  pink  dress,  and  shoes  on  her  stockingless  feet,  rushed 
out ;  after  her,  a  rough-haired  man  in  a  red  shirt,  and  ex- 
tremely wide  trousers,  like  a  petticoat,  and  with  goloshes  on 
his  feet.  The  man  caught  her  under  the  stairs:  "You 
sha'n't  escai)e  me,"  he  said,  laughing. 

"  Just  listen  to  the  squint-eyed  devil !  "  began  the  woman, 
who  was  evidently  not  averse  to  his  attentions  ;  but,  having 
caught  sight  of  me,  she  exclaimed  angrily,  ''  AV4io  are  you 
looking  for?  "  As  I  did  not  want  any  one  in  particular,  I 
felt  somewhat  confused,  and  went  away. 

This  little  incident,  though  by  no  means  remarkable  in 
itself,  suddenly  showed  to  me  the  work  I  was  about  to  under- 
take in  an  entirely  new  light,  especially  after  what  I  had 
seen  on  the  other  side  of  the  courtyard, — ^  the  scolding 
old  woman,  the  light-hearted  old  man,  and  the  sliding  boys. 
I  had  meditated  doing  good  to  these  people  by  the  help  of 
the  rich  men  of  INIoscow.  I  now  realized,  for  the  first  time, 
that  all  these  poor  unfortunates,  whom  I  had  been  wishing 
to  help,  had,  besides  the  time  they  spent  suttering  from  cold 
and  hunger,  in  waiting  to  get  a  lodging,  several  hours  daily 
to  get  through,  and  that  they  must  somehow  fill  up  the  rest 
of  the  twenty-four  hours  of  every  day, — a  whole  life,  of 
which  I  had  never  thought  before.  I  realized  now,  for  the 
first  time,  that  all  these  people,  besides  the  mere  effort  to 
find  food  and  shelter  from  the  cold,  must  live  through  the 
rest  of  every  day  of  their  life  as  other  people  have  to  do, 


]УПЛТ  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  19 

must  get  angry  at  times,  and  be  dull,  and  try  to  appear  liglit- 
hcarted,  and  be  sad  or  meiry.  And  now,  for  the  first  time 
(liowever  strange  the  confession  ma}'  sound),  1  was  fully 
aware  that  the  task  which  I  was  undertaking  could  not 
sim|)ly  consist  in  feeding  and  clothing  a  thousand  pe<jple 
(just  as  one  might  feed  a  thousand  head  of  sheep,  and  drive 
them  into  shelter),  but  must  develop  some  more  essential 
help.  And  when  I  considered  that  each  one  of  these  in- 
dividuals was  just  such  another  man  as  myself,  possessiug 
also  a  past  historj',  with  the  same  passions,  temptations, 
and  en'ors,  the  same  tlioughts,  the  same  questions  to  be 
answered,  then  suddenly  the  work  before  me  appeared  stu- 
pendous, and  I  felt  my  own  utter  helplessness  ;  —  but  it  had 
been  begun,  and  1  was  resolved  to  continue  it. 


V. 

Ox  the  appoiuted  day,  the  students  who  were  to  assist  me 
started  eai-ly  in  tlie  morning  ;  while  I,  tiie  instigator,  only 
joined  thein  at  twelve  o'clock.  1  could  not  come  earlier  ;  as 
I  did  not  get  up  till  ten,  after  which  I  had  to  take  some 
colfee,  and  then  smoke  for  the  sake  of  my  digestion.  Twelve 
o'clock  then  found  me  at  the  door  of  the  Rzhanoff  Houses. 
A  policeman  showed  me  a  public-house,  to  which  the  census- 
clerks  referred  all  those  who  wished  to  inquire  for  them.  I 
entered,  and  found  it  very  dirty  and  unsavory.  Here,  right 
in  front  of  me,  was  a  counter  ;  to  the  left  a  small  room,  fur- 
nished with  tables  covered  ^'ith  soiled  napkins  ;  to  the  right 
a  lai'gc  room  on  pillars,  containing  similar  little  tables  placed 
ill  the  windows  and  along  the  walls  ;  with  men  here  and 
there  having  tea,  some  very  ragged,  others  well  dressed,  ap- 
p;u4'ntly  workmen  or  small  sli()[)keepers.  There  were  also 
several  women.  In  spite  of  the  dirt,  it  Avas  easy  to  see,  by 
the  business  air  of  the  man  in  charge,  and  the  ready,  obliging 
nianuers  of  the  waiters,  that  the  eating-house  was  driving  a 
good  trade.  I  had  no  sooner  entered  than  one  of  the  waiters 
was  already  preparing  to  assist  me  in  getting  off  my  over- 
coat, and  anxious  to  take  my  orders,  showing  that  evidently 
t'.ie  people  here  were  in  the  iiabit  of  doing  their  work  quickly 
and  readily. 

iMy  inquiry  for  the  census-clerks  was  answere(l  liy  a  call 
lor  "  V^anya"  from  a  little  man  (.Iressed  in  foreign  fashion, 


20  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

wlio  was  arranging  something  in  a  cupboard  behind  the 
counter.  This  was  the  proprietor  of  the  public-house,  a 
peasant  from  Kahiga,  Ivan  Fedotitch  by  name,  who  also 
rented  half  of  the  other  houses,  sub-letting  the  rooms  to 
lodgers.  In  answer  to  his  call,  a  thin,  sallow-faced,  h(jok- 
nosed  lad,  of  some  eighteen  years,  came  forward  hastily  ;  and 
the  landlord  said,  "  Take  this  gentleman  to  the  clerks:  they 
have  gone  to  the  main  body  of  the  building  over  the  well." 

The  lad  put  down  his  napkin,  pulled  a  coat  on  over  his 
Avhite  shirt  and  trousers,  picked  up  a  large  cap,  then,  with 
quick,  short  steps,  he  led  the  way  by  a  back-door  through  the 
buildings.  At  the  entrance  of  a  greasy,  malodorous  kitchen, 
we  met  an  old  woman,  who  was  carefully  carrying  in  a  rag 
some  putrid  tripe.  We  descended  into  a  court,  built  up  all 
round  with  wooden  buildings  on  stone  foundations.  The 
smell  was  most  offensive,  and  seemed  to  be  concentrated  in  a 
privy,  to  which  numbers  of  people  were  constantly  resorting. 
This  awful  cesspool  forced  itself  upon  one's  notice  by  the 
pestilential  atmosphere  around  it. 

The  boy,  taking  care  not  to  soil  his  white  trousers,  led  me 
cautiously  across  frozen  and  unfrozen  filth,  and  approached 
one  of  the  buildings.  The  people  crossing  the  yard  and 
galleries  all  stopped  to  gaze  at  me.  It  was  evident  that  a 
cleanly-dressed  man  was  an  unusual  sight  in  the  place. 

The  boy  asked  a  woman  whom  we  met,  whether  she  had 
seen  where  the  census  officials  had  entered,  and  three  people 
at  once  answered  his  question :  some  said  that  the}-  weie 
over  the  well ;  others  said  that  they  had  been  there,  but  had 
now  gone  to  Nikita  Ivanovitch's.   » 

An  old  man  in  the  middle  of  the  court,  who  had  only  a 
shirt  on,  said  that  they  were  at  No.  30.  The  boy  concluded 
that  this  information  was  the  most  probable,  and  led  me  to 
No.  30,  into  the  basement,  where  darkness  and  a  bad  smell, 
different  from  that  which  filled  the  court,  prevailed. 

We  continued  to  descend  along  a  dark  passage.  As  we 
were  traversing  it,  a  door  was  suddenly  opened  ;  and  out  of 
it  came  a  drunken  old  man  in  a  shirt,  evidently  not  of  the 
peasant  class.  A  shrieking  washerwoman,  with  tucked-up 
sleeves  and  soapy  arms,  was  pushing  him  out  of  the  room. 
"  Vanya  "  (my  guide)  shoA^ed  him  aside,  saying,  "  It  won't 
do  to  kick  up  such  a  row  here  —  and  you  an  officer  too  !  " 

When  we  arrived  at  No.  30,  Vanya  pulled  the  door,  wliich 
opened  with  the  sound  of  a  wet  slap  ;   and  we  felt  a  gu.'sli  of 


WHAT  21  и  ST    WE  DO    THEN?  21 

soapy  steam,  and  an  odor  of  bad  food  and  tobacco,  and  en- 
tered into  complete  darkness.  The  windows  were  on  the  other 
side  ;  and  we  were  in  a  crooked  corridor,  that  went  right  and 
left,  and  with  doors  leading,  at  different  angles,  into  rooms 
separated  from  it  by  a  partition  of  nneveul}'  laid  boards, 
ronghly  wliite washed. 

In  a  dark  room  to  the  left  we  conld  see* a  woman  washing 
at  a  trongh.  Another  old  woman  was  looking  out  of  a  door 
at  the  right.  Near  an  open  door  was  a  hairy,  red-skinned 
peasant  in  bark  shoes,  sitting  on  a  conch.  His  hands  rested 
upon  his  knees  ;  and  he  was  swinging  his  feet,  and  looking 
sadly  at  his  shoes. 

At  the  end  of  the  passage  was  a  small  door  leading  into 
the  room  where  the  census  officers  were  assembled.  This 
was  the  room  of  the  landlady  of  the  whole  of  No.  30.  She 
rented  the  a|)tirtment  from  Ivdn  Fedotitch,  and  snb-let  the 
rooms  to  ordinary  or  night  lodgers. 

In  this  tiny  room  a  student  sat  under  an  image  glittering 
with  gilt  paper,  and,  with  the  air  of  a  magistrate,  was  put- 
ting questions  to  a  man  dressed  in  shirt  and  vest.  Tliis  last 
was  a  friend  of  tlie  landlady's,  who  vA-as  answering  the  ques- 
tions in  her  stead.  The  landlady  herself,  —  an  old  woman, 
—  and  two  inquisitive  lodgers,  were  also  present. 

lYhen  I  entered,  the  room  was  quite  filled  up.  I  pushed 
through  to  the  table,  shook  hands  with  the  student,  and  he 
went  on  extracting  his  informntion ;  while  I  studied  the 
inhabitants,  and  put  questions  to  them  for  my  own  ends. 

It  apj)eared,  however,  I  could  find  no  one  here  upon  whom 
to  bestow  my  benevolence.  The  landlady  of  the  rooms, 
notwithstanding  their  wretchedness  and  filth  (which  espe- 
cially struck  me  in  comparison  with  the  mansion  in  which  I 
lived),  was  Avell  off,  even  from  the  point  of  view  of  town 
poverty  ;  and  compared  with  the  country  destitution,  with 
which  I  was  well  acquainted,. she  lived  luxuriously.  She 
had  a  feather-bed,  a  quilted  blanket,  a  samovar,  a  fur  cloak, 
a  cupboard,  with  dishes,  plates,  etc.  Tiie  landlady's  friend 
had  the  same  Avell-to-do  appearance,  and  boasted  even  a 
watch  and  chain.  The  lodgers  were  poor,  but  among  them 
there  was  no  one  requiring  inmiediate  help. 

Three  only  applied  for  aid, — the  woman  washing  linen, 
who  said  she  had  been  abandoned  by  her  husband;  an  old 
widowed  woman,  without  means  of  livelihood  ;  and  the 
peasant  in  the  ragged  shoes,  who  told  me  he  had  not  had 


22  ТГЯ.'1Г  2ICfSr    ]ГЕ  DO    THEN? 

an}'  thing  to  eat  that  day.  But,  upon  gathering  more  precise 
information,  it  became  evident  that  all  these  people  were  not 
in  extreme  want,  and  that,  in  order  really  to  help,  it  would  be 
necessary  to  become  more  intimately  acquainted  with  them 

When  I  offered  the  washerwoman  to  place  her  children  i.i  a 
"home,"  she  became  confused,  thought  over  it  some  time, 
then  thanked  me  much,  but  evidently  did  not  desire  it :  slie 
Avished  rather  to  be  given  some  money.  Her  eldest  daugh- 
ter helped  her  in  the  washing,  and  the  second  acted  as  nui'se 
to  the  little  1юу. 

The  old  woman  asked  to  I)e  put  into  a  refuge  ;  but,  upon 
examining  her  corner,  1  saw  that  she  was  not  in  dire  distress. 
She  had  a  box  containing  her  property  :  she  had  a  teapot, 
two  cups,  and  old  bonbon-boxes  with  tea  and  sugar.  She 
knitted  stockings  and  gloves,  and  received  a  monthly  allow- 
ance from  a  lady  benefactress. 

The  peasant  was  evidently  more  desirous  of  wetting  his 
throat  after  his  last  day's  drunkenness  than  of  food,  and 
any  thing  given  him  would  have  gone  to  the  public-house. 
In  these  rooms,  therefore,  there  was  no  one  whom  I  could 
have  rendered  in  any  respect  happier  by  helping  them  with 
money. 

There  were  only  pnupers  there,  —  and  paupers,  it  seemed 
to  me,  of  a  questionable  kind. 

I  put  down  the  names  of  the  old  woman,  the  laundress, 
and  the  peasant,  and  settled  in  my  mind  that  it  would  be  ne- 
cessary to  do  something  for  them,  but  that  first  I  should  aid 
those  other  especially  unfortunate  ones  whom  I  expected  to 
come  across  in  this  house.  I  made  up  my  mind  that  some 
system  was  necessary  in  distributing  the  aid  which  we  had 
to  give  :  first,  we  should  find  the  most  needy,  and  then  come 
to  such  as  these. 

But  in  the  next  lodging,  and  in  the  next  again,  I  found  only 
similar  cases,  which  would  have  to  be  looked  into  more  closely 
before  being  helped.  Of  those  whom  pecuniary  aid  alone 
would  have  rendered  happ}',  I  found  none. 

However  ashamed  I  feel  in  confessing  it,  I  began  to 
experience  a  certain  disappointment  at  not  finding  in  these 
houses  any  thing  resembi.  _:g  what  I  had  expected.  I  thought 
to  find  vei-y  exceptional  people  ;  but,  when  I  had  gone  over 
all  the  lodgings,  1  became  convinced  that  their  inhabitrni^ 
were  in  no  way  extremely  peculiar,  but  much  like  those 
aniono-st  whom  I  lived. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  23 

As  with  us,  so  also  with  them,  there  were  some  more  or 
less  good,  and  others  more  or  less  bad  :  there  were  some 
more  or  less  happy,  and  others  more  or  less  unhappy.  Those 
wb.o  were  unhap[)y  amongst  them  would  Ьал^е  been  equally 
wretched  with  us,  their  misery  being  within  themselves,  —  a 
misery  not  to  be -mended  by  any  kind  of  bank-note. 


VI. 

TiTF,  inhabitants  of  these  houses  belonged  to  the  lowest 
population  of  the  town,  which  in  Moscow  amounts  to  per- 
haps more  tlian  a  hundred  thousand.  In  this  house,  tiiere 
were  re[)resentative  men  of  all  kinds,  —  pett}"  employers 
and  journeymen,  shoemakers,  brushmakers.  joiners,  hackney 
coachmen,  jobbers  carrying  on  business  on  their  own  account, 
waslierwomen,  second-hand  dealers,  money-lenders,  day-la- 
borers, and  others  without  any  delinite  occupation  :  here  also 
lodged  beggars  and  women  of  the  town. 

Many  like  those  whom  I  had  seen  waiting  in  front  of 
Lia[)in's  house  lived  here,  but  they  were  mixed  up  with  the 
"working-people  ;  and,  besides,  those  whom  I  then  saw-  were  in 
a  must  wretched  condition,  when,  having  eaten  and  drunk 
all  they  had.  they  were  turned  out  of  the  public-house,  and, 
cold  and  hungry,  were  waiting,  as  for  heavenl}"  manna,  to  be 
admitted  into  the  free  night-lodging-house, — day  by  day 
longing  to  be  taken  to  prison,  in  order  to  be  sent  back  to 
their  respective  homes.  Here  I  saw  the  same  men  among 
a  greater  number  of  working-people,  and  at  a  time,  when, 
by  some  means  or  other,  they  had  got  a  few  farthings  to  pay 
for  their  night's  lodging,  and  perhaps  a  ruble  or  two  for 
food  and  drink. 

However  strange  it  ma}'  sound,  I  had  no  such  feelings  here 
as  1  experienced  in  Liapin's  house  ;  but,  on  the  contrary',  dur- 
ing my  first  visiting-round,  I  and  the  students  had  a  sensa- 
tion w'liich  was  rather  agreeable  than  otherwise.  I  might 
even  say  it  was  entirely  agreeable. 

My  first  impression  was,  that  the  majorit}'  of  those  lodging 
here  were  workingmen,  and  very  kindly  disposed.  We  found 
most  of  the  lodgers  at  work,  —  the  washerwomen  at  their  tubs, 
thy  jt>iiiers  by  their  benches,  the  bootmakers  at  their  lasts. 
The  tiny  rooms  were  full  of  people,  and  the  work  Avas  going 
on  cheer IViUy  and  with  energy.     There  was  a  smell  of  per- 


24  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

spiration  among  the  workmen,  of  leather  at  the  bootmaker's, 
ot"  chips  in  the  carpenter's  shop.  We  often  heard  songs, 
and  saw  bare,  sinewy  arms  working  bi"iskly  and  skilfnlly. 

Everywhere  we  were  received  kindly  and  clieerfnlly. 
Nearly  everywhere  our  intrusion  into  the  daily  life  of  these 
people  excited  iu  them  no  desire  to  show  us  tlieir  impor- 
tance:, or  to  rate  us  soundl3%  as  happens  when  such  visits 
are  paid  to  the  lodgings  of  well-to-do  peo[)le.  On  the  con- 
trary, all  our  questions  were  answered  respectfully  witliout 
an}'  particular  importance  b^ing  attached  to  tliem,  —  served, 
indeed,  only  as  an  excuse  for  them  to  be  гиеггу,  and  to  joke 
as  to  how  the}'  were  to  be  enrolled  on  the  list ;  how  such  a 
one  was  as  good  as  two,  and  ln)W  two  others  ought  to  be  reck- 
oned as  one. 

Many  we  found  at  dinner  or  at  tea  ;  and  each  time,  in  answer 
to  our  greeting,  "•Bread  and  salt,"  or,  '■•Tea  and  sugar," 
they  said,  ''  You  are  welcome  ;  "  and  some  even  made  room 
for  us  to  sit  down.  Instead  of  the  place  being  the  lesort  of 
an  ever-shifting  population,  such  as  we  expected  to  lind  here, 
it  turned  out  that  in  tliis  house  were  many  rooms  wliich  had 
been  tenanted  by  the  same  people  for  long  periods. 

One  carpenter,  with  his  workmen,  and  a  bootmaker,  with 
his  journeymen,  had  been  living  here  for  ten  years.  The  boot- 
maker's shop  was  very  dirty  and  quite  clioked  up,  but  all  his 
men  were  working  very  cheeril}'.  1  tried  to  talk  witli  one 
of  the  workmen,  wishing  to  sound  him  about  the  miseries 
of  his  lot,  what  he  owed  to  the  master,  and  so  forth  ;  but  he 
did  not  understand  me,  and  spoke  of  his  master  and  of  his 
life  from  a  ver}'  favorable  point  of  view. 

In  one  lodging,  there  lived  an  old  man  Avith  his  old  wife. 
They  dealt  iu  apples.  Their  room  was  warm,  clean,  ami 
filled  with  their  belongings.  The  floor  was  covered  with 
iii-.itling  made  of  apple-sacks.  There  were  chests,  a  eup- 
lioard,  a  samovar,  and  crockery.  Iu  the  corner  were  many 
holy  images,  before  which  two  lamps  were  burning:  on  the 
wail  hung  fur  cloaks  wrapped  up  iu  a  sheet.  The  old  woman 
with  wrinkled  face,  kind  and  talkative,  was  apparently  her- 
self delighted  with  her  quiet,  respectable  life. 

Ivan  l-'edotitch.  the  owner  of  the  inn  and  of  the  lodgings, 
came  out,  and  walked  with  us.  He  joked  kindly  with  many 
of  the  lodgers,  calling  them  all  by  their  names,  and  giving 
us  short  sketches  of  their  cliai-acters.  They  were  as  othei 
men,  did    not    consider    themselves    unhapp}',   but    believed 


WHAT  MUST    WE  1)0    THEN?  25 

they  were  like  every  one  else,  us  in  reality  they  were.  ЛУе 
were  pre[)ared  to  see  only  dreadful  things,  and  we  met  instead 
objects  not  only  not  repulsiA'e,  but  estimable.  And  there 
were  so  many  of  them,  compared  with  the  ragged,  ruined, 
unoccupied  people  we  met  now  and  then  among  them,  that 
the  latter  did  not  in  the  least  destroy  the  general  impression. 
To  the  students  it  did  not  appear  so  remarkable  as  it  did  to 
me.  They  were  merely  performing  an  act,  as  the}^  thought, 
useful  to  science,  and,  iu  passing,  made  casual  observations  : 
but  I  was  a  benefactor  ;  my  object  in  going  there  was  to  help 
the  unhappy,  ruined,  depraved  men  and  women  whom  I  had 
expected  to  meet  in  this  house.  And  suddenly,  instead  of 
unhapp}',  ruined,  depraved  beings,  I  found  the  majority  to 
be  workingmen,  quiet,  satisfied,  cheerful,  kind,  and  very 
good. 

1  was  still  more  strongly  impressed  when  I  found  that  in 
these  lodgings  the  crying  want  I  wished  to  relieve  had 
already  been  relieved  before  I  came.  But  b}'  whom?  liy 
these  same  unhappy,  depraved  beings  whom  I  was  prepared 
to  save  ;  and  this  help  was  given  in  a  way  not  open  to  me. 

In  one  cellar  lay  a  lonely  old  man  sutfering  from  typhus- 
fever.  He  had  no  connections  in  the  world  ;  yet  a  woman, — 
a  widow  with  a  little  girl,  —  quite  a  stranger  to  him,  but  liv- 
ing in  the  corner  next  to  him,  nursed  him,  and  gave  him  tea, 
and  bought  him  medicine  with  her  own  mone}'. 

In  another  lodging  lay  a  woman  in  pueri)eral  fever.  A 
woman  of  the  town  was  nursing  her  child,  and  had  prepared 
a  sucking-bottle  for  him,  and  had  not  gone  out  to  ply  her  sad 
trade  for  two  days. 

An  orphan  girl  was  taken  into  the  family  of  a  tailor,  wlio 
had  three  children  of  his  own.  Thus,  there  remained  only 
such  miseral)le  unoccupied  men  as  retired  officials,  clerks, 
men-servants  out  of  situations,  beggars,  tipsy  people,  pros- 
titutes, children,  whom  it  was  not  possible  to  help  all  at  once 
by  means  of  money,  but  whose  cases  it  was  necessary  to 
consider  carefully  l)efore  assisting  them.  I  had  been  seek- 
ing for  men  sut^'ering  from  want  of  means,  whom  one  might 
be  able  to  help  by  sharing  one's  supertluities  with  them.  I 
had  not  found  them.  All  those  I  had  seen,  it  would  have 
been  very  dillicult  to  assist  materially  without  devoting  time 
and  care  to  them. 


26  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUENf 


VII. 

These  unfortunate  people  ranged  themselves  in  my  mind 
under  three  heads  :  first,  those  who  had  lost  former  advan- 
tageous positions,  and  who  were  waiting  to  return  to  them 
(such  men  belonged  to  the  lowest  as  well  as  to  the  highest 
classes  of  society)  ;  secondly,  women  of  the  town,  who  are 
very  numerous  in  these  houses  ;  and  thirdly,  children. 

The  majority  of  those  I  found,  and  noted  down,  were 
men  who  had  lost  former  places,  and  were  desirous  of 
returning  to  them.  Such  men  were  also  numerous,  being 
chietly  of  the  better  class,  and  government  officials.  In 
almost  all  the  lodgings  we  entered  with  the  landlord,  we 
were  told,  "  Here  we  need  not  trouble  to  fill  up  the  resi- 
dential card  ourselves  :  there  is  a  man  here  who  is  able  to 
do  it,  provided  he  is  not  tipsy." 

And  Ivan  Fedotitch  would  call  by  name  some  such  indi- 
vidual, who  always  belonged  to  this  class  of  ruined  people 
of  a  higher  grade.  AVhen  thus  summoned,  the  man,  if  he 
were  not  tipsy,  was  always  willing  to  undertake  the  task  : 
he  kept  nodding  his  head  with  a  sense  of  importance,  knitted 
his  brows,  inserted  now  and  then  learned  terms  in  his 
remarks,  and  carefully  holding  in  his  dirty,  trembling  hands 
the  neat  pink  card,  looked  round  at  his  fellow-lodgers  with 
pride  and  contempt,  as  if  he  were  now,  by  the  superiority  of 
his  education,  triumphing  over  those  who  had  been  continu- 
ally humbling  him. 

He  w;is  evidently  pleased  with  having  intercourse  with  the 
world  which  used  pink  cards,  with  a  world  of  which  he  him- 
self had  once  been  a  member. 

To  my  questions  about  his  life,  this  kind  of  man  not  only 
replied  willingly,  but  with  enthusiasm,  —  beginning  to  tell  a 
story,  fixed  in  his  mind  like  a  prayer,  about  all  kinds  of 
misfortunes  which  had  happened  to  him,  and  chiefly  about 
his  former  position,  in  which,  considering  his  education,  he 
ought  to  have  remained. 

i\Iany  such  people  are  scattered  about  in  all  the  tenements 
of  the  Rzhanoff  Houses.  One  lodging-house  was  tenanted 
exclusively  by  them,  women  and  men.  As  we  approached 
them,  Ivtin  Fedotitch  said,  "  Now,  here's  where  the  nobility 
live." 

The  lodging  was  full:  almost  all  the  lodgers  —  about  forty 


WHAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  27 

persons  —  were  at  home.  In  the  whole  house,  there  were  no 
faces  so  ruined  and  degraded-looking  as  these,  —  if  old, 
flabl)y  :   if  young,  pale  and  haggard. 

I  talked  \vith  several  of  them.  Almost  alwa^^s  the  same 
story  was  told,  only  in  different  degrees  of  develoimient. 
One  and  all  had  been  once  rich,  or  had  still  a  rich  father  or 
biother  or  uncle  ;  or  either  his  father  or  the  unfortunate  him- 
self had  held  a  high  оШсе.  Then  came  some  misfortune 
caused  by  envious  enemies  or  his  own  imprudent  kindness, 
or  some  out-of-the-way  occurrence  ;  and,  having  lost  every 
thing,  he  was  obliged  to  descend  to  these  strange  and  hate- 
ful surroundings,  among  lice  and  rags,  in  company  Avith 
d  unkards  and  loose  characters,  feediug  upon  bread  and 
liver,  and  sul)sisting  by  beggary. 

All  the  thoughts,  desires,  and  recollections  of  these  men 
are  turned  toward  the  past.  The  present  appears  to  them 
as  something  unnatural,  hideous,  and  unworthy  of  attention. 
The  present  does  not  exist  for  them.  They  have  only  recol- 
lections of  the  past,  and  expectations  of  the  future,  which 
may  be  realized  at  any  moment,  and  for  the  attainment  of 
which  but  very  little  is  needed;  but,  unfoitunately,  this  little 
is  out  of  their  reach  ;  it  cannot  be  got  anywhere  :  and  so  they 
perish  needlessl3%  one  sooner,  another  later. 

One  needs  only  to  be  dressed  respectably,  in  order  to  call 
on  a  well-known  person  who  is  kindly  disposed  toward  him  ; 
another  requires  only  to  be  dressed,  have  his  debts  paid,  and 
go  to  some  town  or  other  ;  a  third  wants  to  take  his  effects  out 
of  pawn,  and  get  a  small  sum  to  carry  on  a  law-suit,  which 
must  be  decided  in  his  favor,  and  then  all  will  be  well  again. 
All  say  that  they  have  need  of  some  external  circumstance 
in  order  to  regain  that  position  which  they  think  natural  and 
happy  for  them. 

If  I  had  not  been  blinded  by  mj^  pride  in  being  a  bene- 
factor, I  shotdd  have  needed  only  to  look  a  little  closer 
into  their  faces,  young  and  old,  which  wei-e  generally  weak, 
sensual,  but  kind,  in  order  to  understand  that  their  misfor- 
tunes could  not  be  met  by  exterior  means  ;  that  they  could 
be  happy  in  no  situation,  while  their  present  conception  of 
life  remtiinod  the  same  ;  that  they  were  by  no  means  peculiar 
people  in  peculiarly  unhappy  circumstances,  but  that  tiiey 
were  like  all  other  men,  ourselves  includeil. 

I  remember  well  how  my  intercourse  witli  men  of  this  class 
was  particularly  trying  to  me.     I  now  understand  why  it  was 


28  WHAT  MUST    WE   no    TflKNf 

so.  In  them  T  snw  my  own  sc4f  as  in  я  miiroi-.  If  I  harl 
considered  carefully  my  own  life,  and  the  lives  of  jXMjple  of 
my  own  ekiss,  I  shonld  luive  seen,  that,  between  us  and  these 
unfortunate  men,  there  existed  no  essential  differeuce. 

Those  who  live  nvound  me  in  expensive  suites  of  ajiart- 
ments,  and  houses  of  their  own  in  the  best  streets  of  the  city, 
eating  something"  better,  too,  than  liver  or  lierring  with  their 
biead,  ai'e  none  the  less  unha|)py.  1  hey  also  are  discon- 
tented with  their  lot,  regret  the  [jast,  and  desire  a  liappier 
future,  precisely  as  did  the  wretched  tenants  of  the  Ixzhauoff 
Houses.  Both  wish  to  work  less,  and  to  be  worked  for  more, 
the  ditference  l)etween  them  being  or^ly  in  degrees  of  idleness. 

Unfortunately,  1  did  not  see  this  nt  first,  nor  did  I  under- 
stand that  such  people  needed  to  be  i-elieved,  not  by  my 
charity,  but  of  their  own  false  views  of  the  world  ;  and  that, 
to  change  a  man's  estimate  of  life,  he  must  be  given  one 
more  accurate  than  his  own,  which,  unhappily,  not  possessing 
myself,  I  could  not  communicate  to  others. 

These  men  were  unhappy,  not  because,  to  use  an  illustra- 
tion, the}'  had  not  nonrislung  food,  but  because  their  stom- 
achs were  spoiled  ;  and  the}'  required,  not  nourishment,  but 
a  tonic.  I  did  not  see,  that,  in  order  to  help  them,  it  was 
not  necessary  to  give  them  food,  but  to  teach  them  how  to 
eat.  Though  I  am  anticipating,  I  must  say,  that,  of  all  these 
people  whose  names  I  put  down,  1  did  not  in  I'eality  help 
one,  notwithstanding  that  all  some  of  them  had  desired  was 
done  in  order  to  relieve  tlKin.  Of  these  I  became  acquainted 
with  three  men  in  particular.  ЛИ  three,  after  many  failures 
and  much  assistance,  are  now  just  iu  the  same  position  m 
which  they  were  three  years  ago. 


VIII. 

The  second  class  of  unfortunates,  whom  I  hoped  after- 
wards to  be  able  to  help,  were  women  ot  the  town.  8uch 
women  were  very  numerous  iu  the  KzhanofT  Houses  ;  and  they 
луеге  of  every  kind,  from  young  giils  still  bearing  some  like- 
ness to  women,  to  old  and  fearful-looking  creatures  without  a 
vestige  of  humanity.  The  hope  of  helping  these  луотеп, 
whom  I  had  not  at  lirst  in  view,  was  aroused  by  the  following 
circumstances. 

When  we  had  just  finished  half  of  our  visiting-tour,  we 


WHAT  2IUSr    WE   DO    THEN?  29 

had  already  acquired  a  somewhat  mechanical  method.  On 
enleriiio'  a  new  lodging,  we  at  once  asked  for  the  landlord. 
One  of  us  sat  down,  clearing  a  space  to  write  ;  and  the  other 
Avent  from  one  to  another,  (juestioning  each  man  and  woman 
in  the  room,  and  reporting  the  information  obtained  to  the 
one  who  was  writing. 

On  our  entering  one  of  the  basement  lodgings,  the  student 
went  to  look  for  the  landlord  ;  and  I  began  to  question  all 
wlio  were  in  the  place.  Tliis  place  was  thus  divided  :  Jn  the 
midille  of  the  room,  whicii  was  four  3'ards  square,  there 
stood  a  stOA'e.  From  the  stove  radiated  four  partitions,  or 
screens,  making  a  similar  number  of  small  compartments. 
Jn  the  first  of  these,  which  had  two  doors  in  it  opposite  each 
other,  and  four  pallets,  were  an  old  man  and  a  woman.  Next 
to  it  was  a  rather  long  but  narrow  room,  in  which  was  the 
landlord,  a  young,  pale,  good-looking  man,  dressed  in  a  gray 
луооПеп  coat.  To  the  left  of  the  first  division,  there  was  a 
tliird  small  room  where  a  man  was  sleei)ing,  seemingly  tipsy, 
and  a  woman  in  a  pink  dressing-gown.  The  fourth  com- 
]):irtment  was  behind  a  partition,  access  to  it  being  through 
the  landlord's  room. 

The  student  entered  the  latter,  while  I  remained  in  the 
first,  questioning  the  old  man  and  the  woman.  The  former 
had  been  a  typesetter,  but  had  now  no  means  of  livelihood 
whatever. 

The  woman  was  a  cook's  wife. 

I  went  into  the  third  compartment,  and  asked  the  woman 
in  tlie  dressing-gown  about  the  man  who  was  asleep. 

She  answered  that  he  was  a  visitor. 

1  asked  her  лу11о  she  was. 

She  replied  that  she  was  a  peasant  girl  from  the  county  of 
Moscow. 

"  What  is  3'our  occupation?  "  She  laughed,  and  made  no 
answer. 

''  What  do  3'ou  do  for  5'our  living?"  I  repeated,  thinking 
she  had  not  undei'stood  the  question. 

''  I  sit  in  the  inn,"  she  said. 

I  did  not  understand  her.  and  asked  again, — 

•'  What  are  your  means  of  living?  " 

She  gave  me  no  nnswer.  Itut  continued  to  giggle.  In  the 
fnmth  room,  where  we  had  not  yel  Ьсч'П,  I  heard  the  voices 
of  \v(imcn  ;ds()  giggling. 

TIk'   huidlurd   came  out  of   his  room,  and   approached   us. 


30  WHAT  MUST    WE  1)0    THEN? 

He  bad  cvidentl}'  hoard  my  questions  and  the  woman's  an 
svvers.  lie  ghinced  stendy  at  her,  and.  turning  to  me,  s:dd- 
"  She  is  a  prostitute  ;  "  and  it  was  evident  tiiat  he  was  pleaseci 
tluit  lie  knew  tiiis  word,  wliich  is  the  one  used  in  otiieial  cir- 
cles, and  at  having  pronounced  it  correctly.  And  having 
said  this  with  a  respectful  smile  of  satisfaction  towards  me, 
he  turned  to  the  woman.  As  he  did  so,  the  expression  of 
his  face  changed.  In  a  peculiarly  contemptuous  maiuici-, 
and  лvitll  rapid  utterance  as  one  would  speak  to  a  dog.  he 
said,  without  looking  at  her,  "Don't  be  a  fool!  instead  of 
saying  you  sit  in  the  inn,  speak  plainly,  and  say  you  are  a 
prostitute.  —  She  does  not  even  yet  know  her  proper  name," 
be  said,  tuining  to  me. 

This  manner  of  speaking  shocked  me. 

''  It  is  not  for  us  to  shame  her,"  I  said.  "  If  we  were  all 
living  according  to  God's  commandment,  there  would  be  no 
such  persons." 

"Yes,  yes:  of  course  you  are  right,"  said  the  landlord, 
with  a  forced  smile. 

"  Therefore  we  must  pity  them,  and  not  reproach  them  as 
if  it  were  their  own  fault  entirely." 

I  do  not  remember  exactly  what  I  said.  I  remember  only 
that  I  was  disgusted  by  the  disdainful  tone  of  this  young 
landlord,  in  a  lodgnig  tilled  with  females  whom  he  termed 
prostitutes  ;  and  I  pitied  the  woman,  and  expressed  both 
feelings. 

No  sooner  had  I  said  this,  tlian  I  heard  from  the  small 
compartment  where  the  giggling  had  been,  the  noise  of  creak- 
ing bed-boards;  and  over  the  partition,  which  did  not  reach 
to  the  ceiling,  appeared  the  dishevelled  curly  head  of  a 
female  with  small  swollen  eyes,  and  a  shining  red  face  ; 
a  second,  and  then  a  third,  head  followed.  They  were  evi- 
dently standing  on  their  beds;  and  all  three  were  stretching 
their  necks  and  holding  their  breath,  and  looking  silently  at 
me  with  strained  attention. 

A  pninful  silence  followed. 

The  student,  who  had  been  smiling  before  this  happened, 
now  became  grave  ;  the  landlord  became  confused,  and  cast 
down  his  eyes  ;  and  the  women  continued  to  look  at  me  in 
expectation. 

I  felt  more  disconcerted  tlinn  all  the  rest.  I  had  certainly 
not  expected  tiiat  a  casual  word  would  produce  such  an 
effect.     It  was   like   the   field   of   battle   covered  with  dead 


WUAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  31 

bones  seen  hy  the  prophet  Ezekiel,  on  which,  trembling  from 
contact  with  the  spirit,  the  dead  bones  began  to  move.  I 
had  casually  uttered  a  word  of  love  and  pity,  which  pro- 
duced upon  all  such  an  effect  that  it  seemed  as  if  they  had 
been  only  waiting  for  it,  to  cease  to  be  corpses,  and  to 
become  alive  again. 

They  continued  to  look  at  me,  as  if  wondering  what  would 
come  next,  as  if  waiting  for  me  to  say  those  words  and  do 
those  acts  by  which  these  dr}'  bones  would  begin  to  come 
together, — be  covered  with  flesh  and  receive  life. 

But  I  felt,  alas  !  that  I  had  no  such  words  or  deeds  to 
give,  or  to  continue  as  I  had  begun.  In  the  depth  of  my 
soul  I  felt  that  I  had  told  a  lie,  that  I  myself  was  like  them, 
that  I  had  nothing  more  to  say  ;  and  I  began  to  write  down 
on  the  domiciliary  card  the  names  and  the  occupations  of  all 
the  lodgers  there. 

This  occurrence  led  me  into  a  new  kind  of  error.  I  began 
to  think  that  these  unhappy  ones  also  could  be  helped.  This, 
in  my  self-deception  it  seemed  to  me,  would  be  very  easily 
done.  1  said  to  myself,  ''  Now  we  shall  put  down  the  names 
of  these  women  too  ;  and  afterwards,  when  we  (though  it 
never  occurred  to  me  to  ask  who  were  the  we)  have  written 
every  thing  down,  we  can  occupy  ourselves  with  their  affairs." 
1  imagined  that  we,  the  very  persons  who,  during  many  gen- 
erations, have  been  leading  such  women  into  such  a  condi- 
tion, and  still  continue  to  do  so,  could  one  line  morning 
wake,  and  remedy  it  all.  And  3'et,  if  I  could  have  recol- 
lected my  conversation  with  the  lost  woman  who  was  nursing 
the  baby  for  the  sick  mother,  I  should  have  understood  all 
the  folly  of  such  an  idea. 

When  we  first  saw  this  woman  nursing  the  child,  we 
thought  that  it  was  hers  ;  but  upon  our  asking  her  what  she 
was,  slie  answered  us  plainly  that  she  was  unmarried.  She 
did  not  say  "•  prostifute."  It  was  left  for  the  rude  pro- 
prietor of  the  lodgings  to  make  use  of  that  terrible  word. 
The  supposition  that  she  had  a  child  gave  me  the  idea  of 
heli)ing  her  out  of  her  present  position. 

''  Is  this  child  yours?"  I  asked. 

"  No  :   it  is  that  woman's  there." 

"  Why  do  you  nurse  him?  " 

"  She  asked  me  to  :  she  is  dying." 

Though  my  surmise  turned  out  to  be  wrong,  T  continued 
to  speak  with  her  in  the  same  s[)irit.      I   began  to  quesliuu 


32  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

her  as  to  who  she  was,  and  how  she  came  to  bo  in  such  a 
position.  She  told  me  lier  story  willingly,  and  very  plainly. 
She  belonged  to  the  lower  ranks  of  Moscow  society,  the 
daughter  of  a  factory  workman.  She  Avas  left  an  ori)han, 
and  adopted  by  her  annt,  from  whose  house  she  began  to 
visit  the  inns.     The  annt  was  nor:  dead. 

When  I  asked  her  whether  she  wished  to  change  her  course 
of  life,  my  question  did  not  even  interest  her.  How  can  a 
supposition  about  something  quite  impossible  awaken  an 
interest  in  any  one?     She  smiled,  and  said,  -  - 

'•  Who  Avould  take  me  with  a  yellow  ticket?  " 

"  But,"  said  I,  "  if  it  were  possible  to  find  you  a  situation 
as  a  cook  or  something  else?"  1  said  this  because  she 
looked  like  a  strong  woman,  with  a  kind,  dull,  round  face, 
not  unlike  many  cooks  1  had  seen. 

Evidently  my  words  did  not  please  her.  She  repeated, 
''  Cook  !    but  I  do  not  understand  how  to  bake  bread." 

She  spoke  jestingly  ;  but,  by  the  expression  of  her  face,  I 
saw  that  she  was  unvvilling  ;  that  she  even  considered  the 
position  and  rank  of  a  cook  beneath  her. 

This  woman,  who,  in  the  most  simple  manner,  like  the 
widow  in  the  gospel,  had  sacrificed  all  that  she  had  for  a 
sick  person,  at  the  same  time,  like  other  women  of  the  same 
profession,  considered  the  position  of  a  workman  or  working- 
woman  low  and  des[)icable.  She  had  been  educated  in  order 
to  live  without  work.  — a  life  which  all  her  friends  considered 
quite  natural.  This  was  her  misfortune.  And  by  this  she 
came  into  her  present  position,  and  is  kept  in  it.  This 
brought  her  to  the  inns.  Who  of  us  men  and  women  will 
cure  her  of  this  false  view  of  life?  Are  there  among  us  men 
convinced  that  a  laboiious  life  is  more  respectable  than  an 
idle  one,  and  who  are  living  according  to  this  conviction, 
and  who  make  this  the  test  of  their  esteem  and  respect? 

If  I  had  thought  about  it,  1  should  have  understood  ihat 
neither  I.  nor  anybody  else  I  know,  was  able  to  cure  a  pcr^^on 
of  this  disease. 

I  should  have  understood  that  those  wondering  and  awak- 
ened faces  that  looked  over  the  partition  expressed  merely 
astonisinnent  at  the  pity  shown  to  them,  but  no  wish  to 
reform  their  lives.  They  did  not  see  the  immorality  of  them. 
They  knew  that  they  were  despised  and  condemned,  l)ut  the 
reason  for  it  tliey  could  not  understand.  They  had  lived  in 
this  manner  from  their    infancv   among   women    like    them- 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  33 

selves,  who,  they  know  л'сп'  well,  have  always  existed,  do 
exist,  and  are  so  necessary  to  society,  that  there  are  officials 
deputed  by  government  to  see  that  they  conform  to  regula- 
tions. 

l^esides,  they  know  that  they  have  power  over  men,  and 
subdue  them,  and  often  influence  them  more  than  any  other 
women.  They  see  that  their  position  in  society,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  they  are  always  blamed,  is  recognized 
bj-  men  as  well  as  by  women  and  by  the  government ;  and 
therefore  they  cannot  even  understand  of  what  they  have  to 
repent,  and  wherein  they  should  reform. 

During  one  of  our  visiting-tours  the  student  told  me,  that, 
in  one  of  the  lodgings,  there  was  a  woman  about  to  sell  her 
daughter,  thirteen  years  old.  ЛVishing  to  save  this  little  girl, 
I  went  on  pur[)ose  to  their  lodging. 

INlother  and  daughter  were  living  in  great  poverty.  The 
mother,  a  small,  dark-complexioned  prostitute  of  forty  years 
of  age,  was  not  simply  ugly,  but  disagi'eeabl}-  ugly.  The 
diiughter  also  was  bad-looking.  To  all  my  indirect  (jues- 
tions  about  their  mode  of  life,  the  mother  replied  curtly, 
with  a  look  of  suspicion  and  animosity,  apparently  feeliiig 
that  I  was  an  enemy  with  bad  intentions :  the  daughter  said 
nothing  without  looking  first  at  the  mother,  in  whom  she 
evidently  had  entire  confidence. 

The}^  did  not  awaken  pity  in  my  heart,  but  rather  disgust. 
But  I  decided  that  it  was  necessary  to  save  the  daughter,  to 
awaken  an  interest  in  ladies  who  might  sympathize  with  the 
miserable  condition  of  these  women,  and  miglit  so  be  brought 
here. 

But  if  I  had  thought  aljout  the  antecedents  of  the  mother, 
bow  she  luul  given  birth  to  her  daughter,  how  she  had  fed 
and  educated  her,  certainly  without  any  outside  hel[),  and 
with  great  sacrifices  to  herself  ;  if  1  had  thought  of  the  view 
of  life  wiiich  had  formed  itself  in  her  mind,  —  I  should  have 
understood,  that,  in  the  mother's  conduct,  there  was  nothing 
at  all  bad  or  immoral,  seeing  she  had  been  doing  for  her 
daughter  all  she  could;  i.e.,  what  she  considered  best  for 
herself, 

it  was  possible  to  take  this  girl  away  from  her  mother  by 
force  ;  but  to  convince  her  that  she  was  doing  wrong  in  sell- 
ing hei-  daughter,  was  not  i)OSsible.  It  would  first  be  nece^^- 
sary  to  save  this  woman  —  this  mother  —  from  a  condition 
of  life  approved   by  every  one,  and  according  to  vvhicii  a 


34  WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    rilEN? 

woiiinn  тпяу  live  without  marrying  and  without  working, 
serving  exc'hisively  as  a  gratitication  to  the  passions.  If  I 
had  tiiought  about  this,  I  should  have  understood  tiiat  the 
majority  of  those  ladies  whom  I  wished  to  send  here  for  the 
saving  of  this  girl  were  not  only  themselves  avoiding  family 
duties,  and  leading  idle  and  sensual  lives,  but  were  con- 
sciously educating  their  daughters  for  this  very  same  mode 
of  existence.  One  mother  leads  her  daughter  to  the  inn, 
and  another  to  court  and  to  balls.  But  the  views  of  the 
world  held  l)y  l»)th  mothers  are  the  same;  \'iz.,  that  a 
woman  must  gratify  the  lusts  of  men,  and  for  that  she  must 
be  fed,  dressed,  and  taken  care  of. 

How,  then,  are  our  ladies  to  reform  this  woman  and  her 
daughter  ? 

IX. 

Still  more  strange  were  my  dealings  with  the  children.. 
In  my  г(Че  as  a  benefactor,  I  paid  attention  to  tlie  cliildren, 
too,  wishing  to  save  innocent  beings  fiom  going  to  ruin  in 
this  den  ;  and  I  wrote  down  tiieir  names  in  order  to  attend  to 
them  myself  afterwurds. 

Among  these  children,  my  attention  was  particularly  drawn 
to  Serozha,  a  l)oy  twelve  years  old.  I  sincerely  pitie'd  this 
clever,  intelligent  lad,  who  had  been  living  with  a  bootmaker, 
and  who  was  left  without  any  place  of  refuge  when  his  mas- 
ter was  put  into  prison.     1  wished  to  do  something  for  him. 

I  will  now  give  the  result  of  my  benevolence  in  his  case, 
because  this  boj-'s  story  \y\\\  show  my  false  position  as  a 
benefactor  better  than  any  thing  else. 

I  took  the  boy  into  m}'  house,  and  lodged  liim  in  the 
kitchen.  Could  1  possibly  biing  a  lousy  boy  out  of  a  den  of 
depravity  to  my  children  ?  1  considered  that  I  had  been  very 
kind  in  having  put  him  where  he  was,  amongst  my  servants. 
I  thought  myself  a  great  benefactor  for  having  given  him 
some  of  my  old  clothes  and  fed  him  ;  though  it  was  properly 
my  cook  who  did  it,  not  I.  The  bo}-  remained  iu  my  house 
about  a  week. 

During  this  week  I  saw  him  twice,  and,  i)assing  by  him, 
spoke  some  words  to  him,  and,  when  out  walking,  called  on 
a  bootmaker  whom  I  knew,  and  proposed  the  bo}'  as  an 
a[)prentice.  A  peasant  who  was  on  a  visit  at  my  house 
invited   him   to   go   to   his   village,    and   work    in    a    family. 


WHAT   MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  35 

The  boy  refused  to  accept  it,  and  disappeared  within  a 
week. 

I  went  to  Rzhanoff's  house  to  inquire  after  him.  lie  Iiad 
returned  there  ;  but  when  I  called,  he  was  not  at  home.  Me 
had  already  been  two  days  to  the  zoological  gardens,  where 
he  hired  himself  for  thirty  kopeks  a  day  to  a|)pear  in  a  pro- 
cession of  savages  in  costume,  leading  an  ele[)hant.  There 
was  some  public  show  on  at  the  time. 

I  went  to  see  him  again,  but  he  evidently  avoided  me. 
Had  I  reflected  upon  the  life  of  this  boy,  and  on  my  own,  I 
should  have  undeistood  that  the  boy  had  been  spoiled  by  the 
fact  of  his  having  tasted  the  sweets  of  a  merry  and  idle  life, 
and  that  he  had  lost  the  habit  of  working.  And  I.  hi  order 
to  confer  a  benelit  on  him  and  reform  him,  took  him  into  ray 
own  house;  and  what  did  he  see  there?  He  saw  my  chil- 
dren, some  older  than  he,  some  younger,  and  some  of  the 
same  age,  who  not  only  never  did  any  thing  for  themselves, 
but  gave  as  nnich  work  to  others  as  they  could.  They 
dirtied  and  si)oiled  every  thing  about  them,  surfeited  them- 
selves with  all  sorts  of  dainties,  broke  the  china,  upset  and 
threw  to  the  dogs  food  which  would  have  been  a  ti'eat  to 
him.  If  I  took  him  out  of  a  den  and  brought  him  to  a  re- 
spectable place,  he  could  not  but  assimilate  those  views  of 
life  which  existed  there;  and,  according  to  these  views,  he 
understood,  that,  in  a  respectable  position,  one  must  live 
without  working,  eat  and  drink  well,  and  lead  a  merry  life. 

True,  he  did  not  know  that  my  children  had  nuich  labor 
in  learning  the  exceptions  in  Latin  and  Oreek  grannnars  ; 
and  he  would  not  have  been  al)le  to  understand  the  object  of 
such  work.  But  one  cannot  help  seeing,  that,  had  he  even 
understood  it,  the  influence  upon  him  of  the  example  of  ray 
children  would  have  been  still  stronger.  He  would  have  then 
understood  tliatthey  were  i»eing  educated  in  such  a  way,  that, 
not  working  now,  they  might  hereafter  also  work  as  little  as 
possible,  and  enjoy  the  good  things  of  life  by  virtue  of  their 
diplomas. 

But  what  he  dfd  understand  of  it,  made  him  go,  not  to  the 
peasant  to  take  care  of  cattle  and  feed  on  potatoes  and 
kvas,  but  to  the  zoological  gardens  in  the  costume  of  a 
savage  to  lead  an  elephant  for  thirty  kopeks  a  day.  I  ought 
to  liave  understood  how  fooli^^h  it  was  of  one  who  was  edueat- 
-  ing  his  own  children  in  complete  idleness  and  luxury,  to  try 
to  reform  other  men  and  their  children,  and  save  them  from 


36  ЦЧ1АТ  MUST    ]VE   DO    THEN? 

going  to  ruin  and  idleness  in  what  I  called  the-  dens  in 
lizhauoff's  house  ;  where,  however,  three-fourths  of  the  men 
were  working  for  themselves  and  for  others.  But  then  I 
understood  nothing  of  all  this. 

In  Rzhanoft's  house,  there  were  a  great  many  children  in 
the  most  miserable  condition.  There  were  children  of  pros- 
titutes, orphans,  and  children  carried  about  the  streets  by 
beggars.  They  were  all  very  wretched.  But  my  experience 
wilh  Sei'ozha  showed  me,  that,  so  long  as  I  continued  living 
the  life  which  I  did,  I  was  not  able  to  help  them. 

While  the  latter  was  living  with  us,  I  rememl)er  that  I  toqk 
pains  to  hide  from  him  our  way  of  life,  particularly  that  of 
my  children.  I  felt  that  all  ni}'  endeavors  to  lead  him  to  a 
good  and  laborious  life  were  frustrated  by  my  example,  and 
that  of  my  children.  It  is  very  easy  to  take  away  a  child 
from  a  prostitute  or  a  beggar.  It  is  very  easy,  when  one 
has  money,  to  wash  him,  dress  him  in  пелу  clothes,  feed  him 
well,  and  even  teach  him  different  accomplishments;  but  to 
teach  him  how  to  earn  his  living,  is,  for  us  who  have  not  been 
earning  ours,  but  have  been  doing  just  the  contrary,  not  only 
difficult,  but  quite  impossible,  l)ecause  l\y  our  example,  antl 
by  the  very  improvements  of  his  mode  of  life  effected  by  us, 
without  any  cost  on  our  part,  we  teach  him  tlie  ver}'  o|)[)Osite. 

You  may  take  a  puppy,  pet  him,  f(ied  him,  teach  him  to 
carry  things  after  you,  and  be  pleased  with  looking  at  him  : 
but  it  is  not  enough  to  feed  a  man,  dress  him,  and  teach  him 
Greek;  you  must  teach  him  how  to  live;  i.e.,  how  to  take 
less  from  othei's,  and  give  them  more  in  return  :  and  yet  we 
cannot  help  teaching  him  the  very  opposite,  through  our  own 
mode  of  life,  Avhether  we  take  him  into  our  own  house,  or 
put  him  into  a  home  to  bring  up. 


I  HAVE  пел^ег  since  experienced  such  a  feeling  of  compas- 
sion towards  men,  and  of  aversion  towards  nivself,  as  I  felt 
in  Liapin's  house.  I  was  now  filled  with  the  desire  to  carry 
out  the  scheme  which  I  had  already  begun,  and  to  do  good  to 
those  men  whom  I  met  with. 

And,  strange  to  say,  though  it  might  seem  that  to  do  good 
and  to  give  money  to  those  in  want  of  it,  was  a  good  deeil, 
and  ougiit  to  dispose  men  to  universal  love,  it  turned  out 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  37 

quite  the  reverse  ;  calling  up  in  me  bitter  feeling,  and  a  dis- 
position to  censure  them.  Even  dui'ing  our  Hrst  visiting-tour  a 
scene  occurred  similar  to  that  in  Liapin's  house  ;  but  it  failed 
to  produce  again  the  same  effect,  and  created  a  very  different 
impression. 

it  began  with  my  finding  in  one  of  the  lodgings  a  miserable 
pei-son  who  required  immediate  help,  —  a  Avoman  who  iiad  not 
eaten  food  for  two  days. 

It  happened  thus  :  In  one  very  large  and  almost  empty 
nlglit-lodging,  I  asked  an  old  woman  whether  there  were  any 
poor  people  who  had  nothing  to  eat.  She  hesitated  a  moment, 
and  then  named  two  ;  then  suddenly,  as  if  recollecting  her- 
self, she  said,  "Yes,  there  lies  one  of  them,"  pointing  to 
a  pallet.  "  This  one,"  she  added,  "  indeed,  has  nothing  to 
eat." 

"Yon  don't  say  so!     Who  is  she?" 

"She  has  been  a  lost  woman;  but  as  nobody  takes  her 
now,  she  can't  earn  any  thing.  The  landlady  has  had  pity 
on  her,  but  now  she  wants  to  turn  her  out.  — Agafia  !  I  sa_y, 
Agafia  I  "  cried  the  old  woman. 

We  went  a  little  nearer,  and  saw  something  rise  from  tlie 
pallet.  Tills  was  a  gray-haired,  dishevelled  woman,  thin  as 
a  skeleton,  in  a  dirty,  torn  chemise,  and  with  peculiarly  glit- 
tering, immovable  eyes.  She  looked  fixedly  beyond  us,  tried 
to  snatch  up  her  jacket  behind  her  in  order  to  cover  her 
bony  chest,  and  growled  out  like  a  dog,  "  What?  what?  " 

I  asked  her  how  she  managed  to  live.  For  some  time  she 
was  unable  to  see  the  drift  of  my  Avords,  and  said,  "I  do 
not  know  myself  :  they  are  going  to  turn  me  out." 

I  asked  again  ;  and  oh,  how  ashamed  of  myself  I  feel ! 
my  hand  can  scarcely  Avrite  it !  I  asked  her  whether  it  was 
true  that  she  was  starving.  She  replied  in  the  same  feverish, 
excited  manner,  "I  had  nothing  to  eat  yesterday;  I  have 
had  nothing  to  eat  to-day." 

The  miserable  aspect  of  this  woman  impressed  me  deeply, 
but  quite  differently,  from  what  those  had  in  Liapin's  house  : 
there,  out  of  pity  for  them,  I  felt  embarrassed  and  ashamed 
of  myself  ;  but  here,  I  rejoiced  that  I  had,  at  last,  found  what 
I  had  been  looking  for, —  a  hungry  being. 

I  gave  her  a  ruble,  and  I  remember  how  glad  I  felt  that 
the  others  had  seen  it. 

The  old  woman  forthwith  asked  me  also  for  money.  It 
was  so  pleasant  to  me  to  give,  that  I  handed  her  some  also, 


38  WHAT  MUST   WE  BO   THEN? 

without  thinking  whether  it  was  necessary  or  not.  She 
accompanied  me  to  the  door,  and  those  who  were  in  the  cor- 
ridor heard  how  she  thanked  me.  Probably  my  questions 
about  the  poor  provoked  expectations,  for  some  of  tlie 
inmates  began  to  follow  us  wherever  we  went. 

Among  those  that  begged,  there  were  evidently  drunkards, 
who  gave  me  a  most  disagreeable  impression  ;  but,  having 
once  given  to  the  old  дуошап,  I  thought  I  had  no  right  to 
refuse  them,  and  1  began  to  give  away  more.  This  only 
increased  the  number  of  applicants,  and  there  was  a  stir 
throughout  the  whole  lodging-house. 

On  the  stairs  and  in  the  galleries,  people  appeared  dogging 
m}'  steps.  When  I  came  out  of  the  yard,  a  boy  ran  quickly 
down  the  stairs,  pushing  through  the  people.  He  did  not 
notice  me,  and  said  hurriedly,  — 

"  He  gave  a  ruble  to  Agatia  !  " 

Having  reached  the  ground,  he,  too,  joined  the  crowd  that 
was  following  me.  I  came  out  into  the  street.  All  sorts  of 
people  crowded  round  me,  begging  for  money.  Having  given 
away  all  I  had  in  coppers,  i  entered  a  shop  and  asked  the 
proprietor  to  give  me  change  for  ten  rubles. 

And  here  a  scene  similar  to  that  which  took  place  in 
Liapiu's  house  occurred.  A  dreadful  confusion  ensued. 
Old  women,  seedy  gentlefolk,  peasants,  children,  all  crowded 
about  the  shop,  stretching  out  their  hands ;  I  gave,  and 
asked  some  of  them  about  their  position  and  means,  and 
entered  all  in  my  note-book.  The  shopkeeper,  having  turned 
up  the  fur  collar  of  his  great-coat,  was  sitting  like  a  statue, 
glancing  now  and  then  at  the  crowd,  and  again  staring 
beyond  it.  He  apparently  felt  like  every  one  else,  that  all 
this  was  л'егу  foolish,  but  he  dared  not  say  so. 

In  Liapin's  house  the  misery  and  humiliation  of  the  people 
had  overwhelmed  me  ;  and  I  felt  myself  to  blame  for  it,  and 
also  felt  the  desire  and  the  possibility  of  becoming  a  better  man. 
But  though  the  scene  here  was  similar,  it  produced  a  quite 
different  effect.  In  the  first  place,  I  felt  angr}'  with  many 
of  those  who  assailed  me,  and  then  I  felt  anxious  as  to  what 
the  shopmen  and  the  dvorniks  might  think  of  me.  I 
returned  home  that  day  with  a  weight  on  my  mind.  I  knew 
that  w^hat  I  had  done  was  foolish  and  inconsistent ;  but,  as 
usual,  when  m}-  conscience  was  troubled,  I  talked  the  more 
about  my  projected  plan,  as  if  I  had  no  doubt  whatever  as 
to  its  success. 


WHAT  31  и  ST    WE  DO    THEN?  39 

The  next  day  I  went  alone  to  those  Avhom  I  had  noted 
down,  and  who  seemed  the  most  miserable,  thinking  they 
could  be  more  easily  helped  than  others. 

As  I  have  already  mentioned,  I  was  not  really  able  to  help 
an}-  of  these  people.  It  turned  out  that  to  do  so  was  more 
difficult  than  I  had  imagined  :  either  I  did  not  understand 
hoAV  to  do  it,  or  else  it  was  indeed  impossible. 

1  went  several  times  before  the  last  visiting-tour  to  Rzhan- 
off's  house,  and  each  time  the  same  thing  occurred  :  I  was 
assailed  by  a  crowd  of  men  and  women,  in  the  midst  of  whom 
I  utterly  lost  my  presence  of  mind. 

I  felt  the  impossibility  of  doing  any  thing  because  there 
were  so  man}'  of  them,  and  I  was  angry  with  them  because 
they  were  so  many  ;  besides,  each  of  them,  taken  separately, 
did  not  awaken  any  sympathy  in  me.  1  felt  that  each  one  of 
them  lied,  or  at  least  prevaricated,  and  regarded  me  only  as 
a  purse  out  of  which  money  could  be  abstracted.  It  often 
seemed  to  me  that  the  very  money  which  was  extorted  from 
me  did  not  improve  their  position,  but  only  made  it  worse. 

The  oftener  I  went  to  these  houses,  the  closer  the  inter- 
course which  I  had  with  the  inmates,  the  more  apparent 
became  the  impossibility  of  doing  any  thing  ;  but,  notwith- 
standing this,  I  did  not  give  up  my  plan  uutil  after  the  last 
night  tour  with  the  census-takers. 

1  feel  more  ashamed  of  this  visit  than  of  any  other. 
Formerly  I  had  gone  alone,  but  now  twenty  of  us  went 
together.  At  seven  o'clock  all  those  who  wished  to  take 
part  in  this  last  tour  began  to  assemble  in  my  house.  They 
were  almost  all  strangers  to  me.  8ome  students,  an  officer, 
and  two  of  my  fashionable  acquaintances,  who,  after  having 
repeated  the  usual  phrase,  "  C'est  tres  interessant!  "  asked 
me  to  put  them  into  the  number  of  the  census-takers. 

These  fashionable  friends  of  mine  had  dressed  themselves 
in  shooting-jackets  and  high  travelling  boots,  which  they 
thought  more  suited  to  the  visit  than  their  ordinary  attire. 
They  carried  with  them  peculiar  pocket-books  and  extraordi- 
nary-looking pencils.  They  were  in  tliat  agitated  stale  of 
mind  which  one  experiences  just  before  going  to  a  hunt,  or  to 
a  duel,  or  into  a  battle.  The  falseness  and  foolishness  of  our 
enterprise  was  now  more  apparant  to  me  when  looking  at 
them  ;  but  were  we  not  all  in  the  same  ridiculous  position? 

Before  starting  we  had  a  conference,  somewiiat  like  a 
council  of   war,  as  to  what   we  should    begin  with,  how  to 


40  WHAT  MUST    ]VE    DO    THEN? 

divide  ourselves,  and  so  on.  This  conference  was  just  like 
all  other  official  councils,  meetings,  and  committees  :  each 
spoke,  not  because  he  had  any  thiug  to  say,  or  to  ask,  but 
because  every  one  tried  to  find  something  to  say  in  order  not 
to  be  behind  the  rest.  But  during  this  conversation  no  one 
alluded  to  the  acts  of  benevolence  to  which  I  had  so  many 
times  referred  ;  and  however  much  ashamed  I  felt,  I  found 
it  was  needful  to  remind  them  that  we  must  carry  out  our 
charitable  intentions  by  w-riting  down,  during  the  visiting- 
tour,  the  names  of  all  whom  we  should  find  in  a  destitute 
condition. 

I  had  always  felt  ashamed  to  speak  about  these  matters  ; 
but  here,  in  the  midst  of  our  hurried  preparations  for  the 
expedition,  I  could  scarcely  utter  a  word  about  them.  All 
listened  to  me  and  seemed  touched,  all  agreed  with  me 
in  words  ;  but  it  was  evident  that  each  of  them  knew  that 
it  was  folly,  and  that  it  would  lead  to  nothing,  so  they  began 
at  once  to  talk  about  other  subjects,  and  continued  doing  so 
until  it  was  time  for  us  to  start. 

AVe  came  to  the  dark  tavern,  aroused  the  waiters,  and 
began  to  sort  our  papers,  When  we  were  told  that  the  peo- 
l)le,  having  heard  about  this  visiting-tour,  had  begun  to  leave 
their  lodgings,  we  asked  the  landlord  to  shut  the  gate,  and 
we  ourselves  went  to  tlie  yard  to  persuade  those  to  remain 
who  wanted  to  escape,  assuring  them  that  no  one  would  ask 
to  see  their  tickets. 

1  remember  the  strange  and  painful  impression  produced 
upon  me  by  these  frightened  night-lodgers.  Ragged  and  lialf- 
dr?ssed,  tliey  all  appeared  tall  to  me  by  the  light  of  the  lan- 
tern in  the  dark  court-yard.  Frightened  and  horrible  in  their 
terror,  they  stood  in  a  small  knot  round  the  pestilential  out- 
house, listening  to  our  persuasions,  but  not  believing  us  ;  and 
evidently,  like  hunted  animals,  were  prepared  to  do  any  thing 
to  escape  from  us. 

Gentlemen  of  all  kinds,  town  and  country  policemen,  pub- 
lic prosecutors  and  judges,  had,  all  their  lives  long,  been 
hunting  them  in  towns  and  villages,  on  the  roads  and  in  the 
streets,  in  the  taverns  and  in  the  lodging-houses,  and  sud- 
denh'  these  gentlemen  had  come  at  night  and  shut  the  gate, 
only,  forsooth,  in  order  to  count  them  ;  they  found  it  as  diffi- 
cult to  believe  this  as  it  would  be  for  hares  to  believe  that 
the  dogs  are  come  out  not  to  catch  but  to  count  them. 

But  the  gates  were  shut,  and  the  frightened  night-lodgers 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  41 

rc'ttirned  to  their  respective  places  ;  and  we,  having  separated 
into  groups,  began  our  visit.  With  me  were  ray  fashionable 
acquaintances  and  two  students.  Vanya,  with  a  hmtern, 
went  before  us  in  a  great-coat  and  white  trousers,  and  we  fol- 
lowed. We  entered  lodgings  well  known  to  me.  The  place 
was  familiar,  some  of  the  persons  also  ;  but  the  majority  were 
new  to  me,  and  the  spectacle  was  also  a  new  and  dreadful  one, 
—  still  more  dreadful  than  that  which  I  had  seen  at  LiajMn's 
house.  All  the  lodgings  were  filled,  all  the  pallets  occupied, 
and  not  only  1)3'  one,  but  often  by  two  persons.  The  sight 
was  dreadful,  because  of  the  closeness  with  which  these 
peoi)le  were  huddled  together,  and  because  of  the  indis- 
criminate commingling  of  men  and  women.  Such  of  the 
latter  as  were  not  dead-drunk  were  sleeping  with  men.  Many 
women  with  children  slept  with  strange  men  on  narrow  beds. 

The  spectacle  was  dreadful,  owing  to  the  misery,  dirt,  rag- 
gedness,  and  terror  of  these  people  ;  and  chiefl}'  so  because 
there  were  so  many  of  them.  One  lodging,  then  another, 
then  a  third,  a  tenth,  a  twentieth,  and  so  on,  without  end. 
And  everywhere  the  same  fearful  stench,  the  same  suffo- 
cating exhalation,  the  same  confusion  of  sexes,  men  and 
women,  drunk,  or  in  a  state  of  insensiliility  ;  the  same  terror, 
submissiveness,  and  guilt  stamped  on  all  faces,  so  that  I  felt 
deeply  ashamed  and  grieved,  as  I  had  before  at  Liapin's. 
At  last  I  understood  that  what  I  was  about  to  do  was  dis- 
gusting, foolish,  and  therefore  imi)Ossible  ;  so  I  left  oft"  writ- 
ing down  their  names  and  questioning  them,  knowing  now 
that  nothing  would  come  of  it. 

At  Liapin's  I  had  been  like  a  man  who  sees  a  horrible 
wound  on  the  body  of  another.  He  feels  sorry  for  the  man, 
ashamed  of  not  having  relieved  him  before,  yet  he  can  still 
hope  to  help  the  sufferer ;  but  now  I  was  like  a  doctor  who 
comes  with  his  own  medicines  to  the  patient,  uncovers  his 
womid  only  to  mangle  it,  and  to  confess  to  himself  that 
all  he  lias  done  has  been  in  vain,  and  that  his  remedy  is  inef- 
fectual. 

XI. 

Tins  visit  gave  the  last  blow  to  ray  self-deception.  It  be- 
came very  evident  to  rae  that  my  aim  was  not  oul}'  foolish, 
but  also  productive  of  evil.  And  yet,  though  I  knew  this,  it 
seemed  to  be  my  duty  to  continue  my  project  a  little  longer : 


42  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

first,  because  by  the  article  which  I  had  written,  and  my 
visits,  I  had  raised  the  expectations  of  tlie  poor  ;  secondly, 
because  what  1  had  said  and  written  had  awakened  the 
sympathy  of  some  benefactors,  many  of  whom  had  promised 
to  assist  me  personally  and  with  mone}'.  And  I  was  expect- 
ing to  be  applied  to  by  botli,  and  hoped  to  satisfy  them  as 
well  as  I  was  able. 

As  regartls  the  applications  made  to  me  by  those  who  were 
in  need,  the  following  details  may  be  given  :  I  received  more 
than  a  hundred  letters,  which  came  exclusively  from  the 
''  rich  poor,"  if  I  may  so  express  myself.  Some  of  them  I 
visited,  and  some  1  left  unanswered.  In  no  instance  did 
I  succeed  in  doing  any  good.  All  the  applications  made  to 
me  were  from  })ersons  who  were  once  in  a  privileged  position 
(I  call  such  persons  privileged  who  receive  more  from  others 
than  they  give  in  return),  had  lost  that  position,  and  were 
desirous  of  regaining  it.  One  wanted  two  hundred  rubles 
in  order  to  keep  his  business  from  going  to  ruin,  and  to 
enalile  him  to  finish  the  education  of  his  children  ;  another 
wanted  to  have  a  pliotographic  establishment ;  a  third  wanted 
money  to  [)av  his  debts,  and  take  his  best  clothes  out  of 
pawn  ;  a  fourth  was  in  need  of  a  piano,  in  order  to  perfect 
himself,  and  earn  money  to  support  his  family  by  giving  les- 
sons. The  majority  did  not  name  any  particular  sum  of 
money  :  they  simply  asked  for  help  ;  but  when  1  began  to  in- 
vestigate what  was  necessary,  it  turned  out  that  their  wants 
increased  in  proportion  to  the  help  offered,  and  nothing 
satisfactory  resulted.  I  repeat  again,  the  fault  may  have 
been  in  my  want  of  understanding;  but  in  any  case  I  helped 
no  one,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  1  made  ever}^  effort  to 
do  so. 

As  for  the  philanthropists  who  were  to  co-operate  with  me, 
something  very  strange  and  quite  unexpected  occurred  :  of 
all  who  promised  to  assist  with  money,  and  even  stated  the 
amount  they  would  give,  not  one  contributed  any  thing  for 
distribution  among  the  poor. 

The  promises  of  pecuniary  assistance  amounted  to  about 
three  thousand  rubles  ;  but  of  all  these  people,  not  one  recol- 
lected his  agreement,  or  gave  me  a  single  kopek.  The 
students  alone  gave  the  mone}'  which  they  received  as  pay- 
ment for  visiting,  about  twelve  rubles  ;  so  that  my  scheme, 
which  was  to  have  collected  tens  of  thousands  of  nd)les  from 
the    rich,   and    to   have  saved  hundreds  and   thousands  of 


WUAr  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN  ?  43 

people  from  misery  and  vice,  ended  in  my  distributing  at 
random  some  few  rubles  among  those  who  came  begging  ; 
and  there  remained  on  my  liands  the  twelve  rubles  offered  by 
the  students,  witli  tAventy-five  more  sent  me  by  tlie  town- 
council  for  my  labor  as  manager,  which  I  positively  did  not 
know  what  to  do  witli. 

And  so  ended  the  affair. 

Then,  before  leaviifg  Moscow  for  the  country,  on  the  Sun- 
day ])efore  the  carnival  I  went  to  the  Rzhanoff  house  in  the 
morning  iu  order  to  distribute  the  thirty-seven  rubles  among 
the  poor.  I  visited  all  whom  I  knew  in  the  lodgings,  but 
found  only  one  invalid,  to  whom  I  gave  something,  —  I  tliink, 
five  rubles.  There  was  nobody  else  to  give  to.  Of  course, 
many  began  to  beg;  but,  as  I  did  not  know  them,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  take  the  advice  of  Ivan  Fedotitch,  tlie  tavern- 
keeper,  respecting  the  distribution  of  the  remaining  thirty- 
two  rubles. 

It  was  the  first  day  of  the  carnival.  Everybody  was 
smartl}'  dressed,  all  had  had  food,  and  many  were  drunk.  In 
the  3'ard  near  the  corner  of  the  house  stood  an  old-clothes 
man,  dressed  in  a  ragged  peasant's  coat  and  bark  shoes. 
lie  was  still  hale  and  hearty.  Sorting  his  purchases,  he  was 
putting  them  into  different  heaps,  —  leather,  iron,  and  other 
things,  —  and  was  singing  a  merry  song  at  the  top  of  his 
voice. 

I  Itegan  to  talk  with  him.  He  was  seventy  years  of  age; 
had  uo  lelatives  ;  earned  his  living  by  dealing  in  old  clothes, 
and  not  only  did  not  complain,  but  said  he  had  enough  to 
eat,  diiuk,  and  to  spare.  I  asked  him  who  in  the  place  were 
jiariiculai'ly  in  want.  He  became  cross,  and  said  plainly  that 
there  was  no  one  in  want  but  drunkards  and  idlers  ;  but  on 
learning  my  object  in  asking,  he  begged  of  me  five  kopeks 
for  drink,  and  ran  to  the  tavern  for  it. 

1  also  went  to  the  tavern  to  see  Ivan  Fedotitch,  in  order  to 
ask  him  to  distribute  tlie  money  for  me.  It  was  full ;  gayly- 
dressed  tipsy  prostitutes  wei'c  walking  to  and  fro  ;  all  the 
tables  were  occupied  ;  many  people  were  already  drunk  ;  and 
in  the  small  room  some  one  was  playing  a  harmonium,  and 
two  peo|ile  were  dancing.  Ivan  Fedotitch,  out  of  respect  for 
me.  ordered  them  to  leave  off,  and  sat  down  next  me  at  a 
vacant  tal)le.  I  asked  him,  as  he  knew  his  lodgers  well,  to 
point  out  those  most  in  want,  as  I  was  intrusted  with  a  little 
money  for  distribution,  and  wished  him  to  direct  me.     The 


44  WriAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

kind-henrtod  man  (he  died  a  year  after) ,  altbougli  he  had  to 
wait  on  his  customers,  gave  me  his  attention  for  a  time  in 
order  to  obUge  me.  He  began  to  think  over  it,  and  was 
evidently  puzzk^d.  One  old  waiter  had  ovei'heaid  us,  and 
took  his  i)art  in  the  conference. 

They  began  to  go  over  his  lodgers,  some  of  whom  were 
known  to  me,  but  they  could  not  agree.  '•'  Paramouovna," 
suggested  the  waiter. 

''Well,  yes,  she  does  go  hungry  sometimes;  but  she 
drinks." 

''  What  difference  does  that  make?  " 

•■'  Well,  Spiridon  Ivanovitch,  he  has  children  ;  that's  the 
man  for  you.  " 

But  Ivan  Fedotiteh  had  doubts  about  Spiridon  too. 

"  Akulina,  but  she  has  a  pension.  Ah,  but  there  is  the 
blind  man  !  " 

To  him  I  газ-self  objected  :  I  had  just  seen  him.  This  was 
an  old  man  of  eighty  3'ears  of  age,  without  any  relatives. 
One  could  scarcely  imagine  any  condition  to  be  worse  ;  and 
j'et  I  had  just  seen  him  lying  drunk  on  a  feather  bed,  curs- 
ing at  his  comparatively  young  mistress  in  the  most  filth}' 
language. 

They  then  named  a  one-armed  l)oy  and  his  mother.  I  saw 
that  Iv/ui  Fedotiteh  was  in  great  difficulty,  owing  to  his 
conscientiousness,  for  he  knew  that  every  thing  given  away 
by  me  would  be  spent  at  his  tavei'u.  But  as  I  had  to  get 
rid  of  my  thirty-two  rubles,  I  insisted,  and  we  managed 
somehow  or  otlier  to  distribute  the  money.  Those  who  re- 
ceived it  were  mostly  well-dressed,  and  we  had  not  far  to  go 
to  find  them  :  they  were  all  in  the  tavern. 

Thus  ended  all  my  benevolent  enterprises  ;  and  I  left  for 
the  country,  vexed  with  every  one,  as  it  always  happens 
when  one  does  something  foolish  and  harmful.  Nothing 
came  of  it  all,  except  the  train  of  thoughts  and  feelings 
which  it  called  forth  in  me,  which  not  only  did  not  cease,  but 
doubly  agitated  ni}'  mind. 

XII. 

"What  did  it  all  mean? 

I  had  lived  in  the  country,  and  had  entered  into  relations 
with  the  counti'y-poor.  It  is  not  out  of  false  modesty,  but  in 
01ч1;м'  to  state  the  truth,  which  is  necessaiTin  order  to  under- 
stand the  run  of  all  my  thoughts  and  feelings,  that  1  must 


WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN?  45 

say  that  in  the  country  I  had  done  perhaps  but  little  for  the 
poor,  the  help  which  had  been  required  of  me  was  so  small ; 
but  even  the  little  I  had  done  had  been  useful,  and  liad 
formed  round  me  an  atmosphere  of  love  and  sympatliy  willi 
my  fellow-creatures,  in  the  midst  of  whom  it  might  _yet  be 
possible  for  me  to  quiet  the  gnawing  of  my  conscience  as  to 
the  unlawfulness  of  my  life  of  luxury. 

On  going  to  the  city  I  had  hoped  for  the  same  happy  rela- 
tions with  the  poor,  but  there  things ^were  upon  quite  another 
footing.  In  the  city,  povert}'  was  at  once  less  truthful,  more 
exacting,  and  more  bitter,  than  in  the  country.  It  was  chiefly 
because  there  was  so  much  more  of  it  accumulated  together, 
that  it  produced  upon  me  a  most  harrowing  impression. 
What  I  experienced  at  Liapin's  house  made  my  own  luxuri- 
ous life  seem  monstrously  evil.  I  could  not  doubt  the  sin- 
cerity and  the  strength  of  this  conviction  ;  yet,  notwithstand- 
ing this,  I  was  quite  incapal)le  of  carrying  out  that  revolution 
which  demanded  an  entire  change  in  my  mode  of  life  :  I  was 
frightened  at  the  prospect,  and  so  I  resorted  to  compromises. 
I  accepted  what  I  was  told  by  every  one,  and  what  has  been 
said  by  everybod}'  since  the  world  began,  —  that  riches  and 
luxury  contain  in  themselves  no  evil,  that  they  are  given  by 
God,  and  that  it  is  possible  to  help  those  in  need  whilst  con- 
tinuing to  live  luxnriously.  I  believed  this,  and  wanted  to 
do  so.  And  I  wrote  an  article  in  which  I  called  upon  all 
rich  people  to  help.  These  all  admitted  themselves  moially 
obliged  to  agree  with  me,  but  evidently  did  not  wish,  or  could 
not,  either  do  or  give  any  thing  for  the  poor. 

I  then  began  visitmg.  and  discovered  what  I  had  in  no 
way  expected  to  see.  On  the  one  hand,  I  saw  in  these  dens 
(as  I  had  at  first  called  them)  men  whom  it  was  iinpossilile 
for  me  to  help,  because  they  were  working-men,  accustomed  to 
labor  and  inivatiou,  and  therefore  having  a  much  firmei'  hold 
on  life  than  I  had.  On  the  other  hand,  I  saw  miseral)le  men 
whom  I  could  not  aid  because  they  were  just  such  as  I  was 
myself.  The  majority  of  the  poor  whom  I  saw  were  wretched, 
merely  because  they  had  lost  the  ca[)acity,  desu'e,  and  habit 
of  earning  their  bread  ;  in  other  words,  their  misery  consisted 
m  the  fact  that  they  were  just  like  myself.  AVhereas,  of  poor 
peoi)Ie,  t(^  whom  it  was  possible  to  give  immediate  assistance, 
—  those  suffering  from  illness,  cold,  and  hunger,  —  I  found 
none,  excei)t  the  starving  Agafia;  and  I  became  persuaded 
that,  being  so  far  removed  from  the  life  of  those  whom  I 


46  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

wished  to  succor,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  find  such  need 
as  I  sought,  because  all  real  need  was  attended  to  by  those 
amongst  whom  these  unhappy  creatures  lived  :  and  my  prin- 
cipal conviction  now  was,  that,  with  money,  I  could  never 
reform  that  life  of  misery  which  these  people  led. 

I  was  persuaded  of  this  :  yet  a  feeling  of  shame  to  leave  off 
all  I  had  begun,  and  self-deception  as  to  m}'  own  virtues, 
made  me  continue  ni}'  plan  for  some  time  longer,  till  it  died 
a  natural  death  ;  thus,  only  with  great  difficulty  and  the  helj) 
of  Ivun  Fedotiteh,  I  managed  to  distribute  in  the  tavern 
at  Kzhanoff's  house  the  thirty-seven  rubles  which  1  con- 
sidered were  not  my  own. 

Of  course  I  might  have  continued  this  style  of  thing,  and 
have  transformed  it  into  a  kind  of  charity  ;  and,  by  in)i)ortun- 
ing  those  who  promised  to  give  me  money,  I  might  have 
obtained  and  distributed  more,  thus  comforting  myself  with 
the  idea  of  my  own  excellence :  but  I  became  convinced  on 
the  one  hand,  that  we  rich  people  do  not  wish,  and  are  also 
unable,  to  distribute  to  the  poor  a  portion  of  our  superfluities 
(we  have  so  man}'  wants  ourselves),  and  that  money  should 
not  be  given  to  any  one  if  we  really  wished  to  do  good,  and 
not  merely  to  distribute  it  at  random  as  1  had  done  in  the 
Rzhanoff  tavern  ;  so  I  dropped  the  affair  entirely,  and  quitted 
Moscow,  in  despair,  for  my  own  village. 

I  intended  on  returning  home  to  write  a  pamphlet  on  my 
experience,  and  to  state  why  my  project  had  not  succeeded. 
I  wanted  to  justify  myself  from  the  imputations  which  re- 
sulted from  my  article  on  the  census ;  I  wanted  also  to 
denounce  society  and  its  heartless  indifference  ;  and  I  desired 
to  point  out  the  causes  of  this  town  miser}',  and  the  necessity 
for  endeavoring  to  remedy  it,  as  well  as  those  means  which 
I  thought  were  requisite  for  this  purpose.  I  began  even  then 
to  write,  and  fancied  I  had  many  very  important  facts  to 
communicate.  But  in  vain  did  I  rack  my  brain  :  I  could  not 
manage  it,  notwithstanding  the  suporal)undance  of  material 
at  my  command,  because  of  the  irritation  under  which  I 
wrote,  and  because  1  had  not  yet  learned  by  experience  what 
was  necessar}'  to  grasp  the  question  rightly  ;  still  more  be- 
cause I  had  not  become  fidh'  conscious  of  the  cause  of  it  all, 
—  a  very  simple  cause,  Avhich  was  deep-rooted  in  myself  ;  so 
the  pamphlet  was  not  finished  at  the  commencement  of  the 
present  year  (1884-1885).  In  the  matter  of  moral  law  we 
witness  a  strange  phenomenon  to  which  men  pay  too  little 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    TUEN ?  47 

attention.  If  I  speak  to  an  milearned  man  about  geolog}', 
astronomy,  history,  natural  philosophy,  or  mathematics,  he 
receives  the  information  as  quite  new  to  him,  and  never  says 
to  me,  "  There  is  nothing  new  in  what  зюи  tell  me  ;  every  one 
knows  it,  and  I  have  known  it  for  a  long  time." 

But  tell  a  man  one  of  the  highest  moral  truths  in  the 
simplest  manner,  in  such  a  way  as  it  has  never  been  befoie 
formulated,  and  every  ordinary  man,  particularly  one  луЬо 
does  not  take  any  interest  in  moral  questions,  and,  above  all, 
one  who  dislikes  them,  is  sure  to  say,  "  AVho  does  not  know 
that?  It  has  been  always  known  and  expressed."  And  he 
really  believes  this.  Only  those  who  can  appreciate  moral 
truths  know  how  to  value  their  elucidation  and  simplification 
by  a  long  and  laborious  process,  or  can  prize  the  transition 
from  a  first  vaguely  undei'stood  proposition  or  desire  to  a 
firm  and  determined  expression  calling  for  a  corresponding 
change  of  conduct. 

We  are  all  accustomed  to  consider  moral  doctrine  to  be  a 
very  insipid  and  dull  affair,  in  which  there  cannot  be  any 
thn)g  new  or  interesting;  whereas,  in  reality,  human  life, 
with  all  its  complicated  and  varied  actions,  which  seem  to 
have  no  connection  with  morals,  —  political  activity,  activity 
in  the  sciences,  in  the  arts,  and  in  conunerce,  —  has  no  other 
object  than  to  elucidate  moral  truths  more  and  more,  and  to 
confirm,  simplify,  and  make  them  accessible  to  all. 

I  recollect  once  while  walking  in  a  street  in  Moscow  I  saw 
a  man  come  out  and  examine  the  flag-stones  attentively  ; 
then,  choosing  one  of  them,  he  sat  down  by  it  and  began 
to  scrape  or  rul)  it  A'igorously. 

''  What  is  he  doing  with  the  pavement?  "  I  wondered  ;  and, 
having  come  up  close  to  him,  I  discovered  he  was  a  young 
man  from  a  butcher's  shop,  and  was  shai'pening  his  knife  on 
the  fiagstone.  He  was  not  thinking  about  the  stones  when 
examining  them,  and  still  less  while  doing  his  work  :  he  was 
merely  sharpening  his  knife.  It  was  necessary  for  him  to  do 
so  in  order  to  cut  the  meat,  but  to  me  it  seemed  that  he  was 
doing  something  to  the  pavement. 

In  the  same  way  mankind  seems  to  be  occupied  with  com- 
merce, treaties,  wars,  sciences,  arts  ;  and  yet  for  them  one 
thing  onlv  is  important,  and  they  do  only  that,  —  they  are 
elucidating  those  moral  laws  by  which  they  live. 

Moral  laws  are  already  in  existence,  and  mankind  has  been 
merely  re-discovering  them  :  this  elucidation  appears  to  be 


48  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

uuimpoi'tant  and  imperceptible  to  one  who  lias  no  need  of 
moral  law,  and  who  does  not  desire  to  live  l)y  it.  Yet  tiiis  is 
not  only  the  chief,  but  ought  to  be  the  sole,  business  of  all 
men.  This  elucidation  is  imperceptil)le  in  the  same  way  as 
the  difference  between  a  shari)  knife  and  a  blunt  one  is  im- 
perceptible. A  knife  remains  a  knife  ;  and  one  who  lias  lujt 
got  to  cut  any  tiling  with  it,  will  not  notice  its  edge  :  Ijiit  for 
one  who  understands  tiiat  all  his  life  depends  more  or  less 
upon  whether  his  knife  is  blunt  or  sharp,  eveiT  improvement 
in  sharpening  it  is  important;  and  such  a  man  knows  tliat 
there  must  be  no  limit  to  this  improvement,  and  that  the 
knife  is  only  really  a  knife  when  it  is  sharp,  and  when  it  cuts 
what  it  has  to  cut. 

The  conviction  of  this  ti-uth  flashed  upon  me  when  I  began 
to  write  my  pamphlet.  Previously  it  seemed  to  me  that  Г 
knew  every  thing  about  my  subject,  that  I  had  a  thorough 
understanding  of  every  thing  connected  with  those  questions 
which  had  been  awakened  in  me  by  the  impressions  made  in 
Liapin's  house  during  the  census  ;  but  when  1  tried  to  sum 
tiiem  up,  and  to  put  them  on  paper,  it  turned  out  that  the 
knife  would  not  cut,  and  had  to  be  sharpened  :  so  it  is  only 
now  after  three  yenvs  that  I  feel  my  knife  is  sharp  enough 
for  me  to  cut  out  what  1  want.  It  is  not  that  1  have  learned 
new  things  :  my  thoughts  are  still  the  same  ;  but  the}'  were 
blunt  formerly ;  they  kept  scattering  in  every  direction  ; 
there  was  no  edge  to  them  ;  nor  was  any  thing  brought,  as  it 
is  now,  to  cue  central  point,  to  one  most  simple  and  plaiu 
conclusion. 

XIII. 

I  RECOLLECT  that  during  the  whole  time  of  my  unsuccess- 
ful endeavors  to  helj)  the  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  JMoscow, 
I  felt  that  I  was  like  a  man  trying  to  help  others  out  of  a 
morass,  who  was  himself  all  the  time  stuck  fast  in  it.  Every 
effort  made  me  feel  the  instability  of  that  ground  upon  \vhich 
I  was  standing.  I  was  conscious  that  I  myself  was  in  this 
same  morass  ;  but  this  acknowledguient  did  not  help  me  to 
look  more  closely  under  my  feet  in  order  to  ascertain  the 
nature  of  the  ground  upon  which  1  stood  :  I  kept  looking  for 
some  exterior  means  to  remed}^  the  existing  evil. 

I  felt  then  that  my  life  was  a  bad  one,  and  that  people 
ought  not  to  live  so  ;  yet  1  did  not  come  to  the  most  natural 


i 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  49 

and  obvious  conclusion,  tliat  I  must  first  reform  my  own  mode 
of  life  before  I  should  have  any  conception  of  how:  to  reform 
that  of  others.  And  so  1  began  as  it  were  at  the  wrong  end. 
1  was  living  in  town,  and  I  desired  to  improve  the  lives  of 
the  men  there  ;  but  1  was  soon  convinced  that  1  iiad  no  power 
to  do  so,  and  I  began  to  ponder  over  the  nature  of  town  life 
and  town  miser}'. 

I  said  to  myself  over  and  over,  "  AVhat  is  this  town  life 
and  town  miser}'?  And  why,  while  living  in  town,  am  I 
unable  to  help  the  town  poor?"  The  only  reply  I  found 
was,  that  1  was  powerless  to  do  any  thing  for  tliem  :  first, 
because  there  were  too  many  collected  together  in  one  place  ; 
secondly,  because  none  of  them  was  at  all  like  those  in  the 
countr}'.  And  again  I  asked  myself,  "  Why  ai'e  there  so 
many  here,   and   in  what  do  they  differ  from  the  country 

poor?  " 

To  both  these  questions  the  answer  was  one  and  the  same. 
Tliei'e  are  many  poor  people  in  towns  because  there  all  those 
who  have  nothing  to  subsist  on  in  the  country  ai'e  collected 
round  the  rich,  and  their  peculiarity  consists  only  in  that 
tliey  have  all  come  into  the  towns  from  the  country  in  order 
to  get  a  living.  (If  there  are  any  town  poor  born  there, 
whose  fathers  and  grandfathers  were  town  born,  these  in 
their  turn  originally  came  there  to  get  a  living.)  But  what 
are  we  to  understand  l)y  the  ex[)ression,  ''getting  a  living  in 
town"?  There  is  souietliing  strange  in  the  expression  :  it 
sounds  like  a  joke  when  we  reflect  on  its  meaning.  How  is 
it  that  from  the  countr}^ —  i.e.,  from  places  where  there  are 
woods,  meadows,  com  and  cattle,  wiiere  the  earth  yields  the 
treasures  of  fertility  —  men  come  away  in  order  to  get  a 
living  in  a  place  where  there  are  none  of  these  advantages, 
but  onl}'  stones  and  dust?  What,  then,  do  these  words 
signify,  to  ''  get  a  living  in  town  "  ? 

Such  a  phrase  is  constantly  used,  both  by  the  employed 
and  their  emi)loyers,  and  that  as  if  it  were  quite  clear  and 
intelligible.  I  remember  now  all  the  hundreds  and  thousands 
of  town  people  living  well  or  in  want  with  wliom  1  had 
spoken  about  their  object  in  coming  here  ;  and  all  of  them, 
Avithout  exception,  told  me  they  had  quitted  their  villages  in 
order  to  get  a  living  ;  that  according  to  the  proverb,  ''  Mos- 
cow neither  sows  nor  reaps,  yet  lives  in  wealth  ;  "  that  in 
Moscow  there  is  abundance  of  every  thing  ;  and  that,  there- 
fore, in  Moscow  one  may  get  the  money  which  is  needed  in 


50  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

the  country  for  geltiug  corn,  cottages,  horses,  and  the  other 
essentials  of  life. 

But,  in  fact,  the  source  of  all  wealth  is  the  country  ;  there 
onl}'  are  real  riches,  —  corn,  woods,  horses,  and  every  thing 
necessarз^  Wh}'  then  go  to  towns  in  order  to  get  what  is 
to  be  had  in  the  country?  And  why  should  people  carr}' 
away  from  the  country  into  the  towns  such  things  as  are 
necessary  for  couutrj'  people,  —  flour,  oats,  horses,  and 
cattle  ? 

Hundreds  of  times  have  I  spoken  thus  with  peasants  who 
live  in  towns  ;  and  from  my  talks  with  them,  and  from  my 
own  observations,  it  became  clear  to  me  that  the  accumula- 
tion of  country  people  in  our  cities  is  partly  necessary,  be- 
cause they  could  not  otherwise  earn  their  livelihood,  and 
partly  voluntary,  because  they  are  attracted  by  the  tempta- 
tions of  a  town  life.  It  is  true  that  tlie  circumstances  of  a 
peasant  are  such,  that,  in  order  to  satisfy  the  pecuniary  de- 
mands made  on  him  in  his  village,  he  cannot  do  it  otherwise 
than  by  selling  tliat  corn  and  cattle  which  he  very  well  knows 
will  be  necessary  for  himself;  and  he  is  compelled,  whether 
he  will  or  not,  to  go  to  town  in  order  to  earn  back  that  which 
was  his  own.  But  it  is  also  true  that  he  is  attracted  to  town 
by  the  charms  of  a  comparatively  easy  wa}'  of  getting  money, 
and  by  the  luxury  of  lif  there  ;  and,  under  the  pretext  of 
thus  earning  his  living,  he  goes  there  ui  order  to  Ьал^е  easier 
work  and  better  eating,  to  drink  tea  three  times  a  da}',  to 
dress  himself  smartly,  and  even  to  get  drunk,  and  lead  a  dis- 
solute life. 

The  cause  is  a  simple  one,  for  property  passing  from  the 
hands  of  the  agriculturalist  into  those  of  non-agriculturalists 
thus  accumulates  in  towns.  Observe  towards  autumn  how 
nnich  wealth  is  gathered  together  in  villages.  Then  come 
the  demands  of  taxes,  rents,  recruiting  ;  then  the  temptations 
of  vodka,  marriages,  feasts,  peddlers,  and  all  sorts  of  other 
snares  ;  so  that  in  one  way  or  other,  this  property,  in  all  its 
various  forms  (sheep,  calves,  cows,  horses,  pigs,  poultr}^ 
eggs,  butter,  hemp,  flax,  rye,  oats,  buckwheat,  pease,  hemp- 
seed,  and  flax-seed),  passes  into  the  hands  of  strangers,  and 
is  taken  first  to  provincial  towns,  and  from  them  to  the  capi- 
tals. A  villager  is  compelled  to  dispose  of  all  these  in  order 
to  satisfy  the  demands  made  upon  him.  and  the  temptations 
oiTered  him  ;  and,  having  thus  dispensed  his  goods,  he  is  left 
iu  want,  and  must  follow  where  his  wealth  has  been  taken  ; 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  51 

and  there  he  tries  to  earn  back  the  money  necessary  for  his 
most  urgent  needs  at  home  ;  and  so.  being  partly  carried 
awaj'  by  tliese  temptations,  he  himself,  along  with  others, 
makes  use  of  the  accumulated  wealth. 

Everywhere  tliroughout  Russia,  and  I  think  not  oiil^y  in 
Russia  but  all  over  the  Avorld,  the  same  thing  ha[)pens. 
The  wealth  of  country  producers  passes  into  the  hands  of 
trades[)eople,  land-owners,  government  functionaries,  manu- 
facturers ;  the  men  who  receive  this  wealth  want  to  enjoy  it, 
and  to  enjoy  it  fully  the}'  must  be  in  town.  In  the  village, 
in  the  first  place,  owing  to  the  inhabitants  being  scattered,  it 
is  difficult  for  the  rich  to  gratif}'  all  their  desires  :  3'ou  do  not 
find  there  all  sorts  of  shops,  banks,  restaurants,  theatres, 
and  various  kinds  of  public  amusements. 

.Secondly,  another  of  the  chief  pleasures  procured  by 
wealth,  —  vanity,  the  desire  to  astonish,  to  make  a  display 
before  others,  —  cannot  be  gratified  in  the  country  for  the 
same  reason,  its  inhabitants  being  too  scattered.  There  is 
no  one  in  the  countr}'  to  appreciate  luxury  ;  there  is  no  one 
to  astonish.  There  you  ma}^  have  wl  t  you  like  to  embellish 
your  dwelling,  —  pictures,  bronze  statues,  all  sorts  of  car- 
riages, fine  toilets,  —  but  there  is  nobody  to  look  at  them  or 
to  envy  you  ;  the  peasants  do  not  understand  the  value  of  all 
this,  and  cannot  make  head  or  tail  of  it.  Thirdly,  luxury  in 
the  country  is  even  disagreeable  to  a  man  who  has  a  con- 
science, and  is  an  anxiety  to  a  timid  person.  One  feels  uneasy 
or  ashamed  at  taking  a  milk  bath,  or  in  feeding  puppies  with 
milk,  when  there  are  children  close  by  needing  it :  one  feels 
the  same  in  building  pavilions  and  gardens  among  a  people 
лу1ю  live  in  cottages  covered  with  stable  litter,  and  who  Ьал'е 
no  wood  to  burn.  There  is  no  one  in  the  village  to  prevent 
the  stupid,  uneducated  peasants  from  s[)oiling  our  comforts. 

And,  therefore,  rich  people  gather  together  in  towns,  and 
settle  near  those  who,  in  similar  positions,  have  similar  de- 
sires. In  towns,  the  enjoyment  of  all  sorts  of  luxuries  is 
carefully  protected  by  a  numerous  police.  The  chief  inhabit- 
ants of  the  town  are  government  functionaries,  round  whom 
all  sorts  of  master-workmen,  artisans,  and  all  the  rich 
peoi)le  have  settled.  There,  a  rich  man  has  only  to  think 
about  any  thing  in  order  to  get  it.  It  is  also  more  agreeable 
for  him  to  live  there,  because  he  can  gratif}'  his  vanity  ;  there 
are  people  with  whom  he  may  try  to  compete  in  luxtu'v, 
whom  he    may    astonish   or   eclipse.      But    it   is   especially 


52  WHAT  J/r.Sr    WE  DO    THEN? 

pleasant  for  a  wealthy  man  to  live  in  town,  because,  where  his 
country  life  was  uncomfortable,  and  somewhat  incongruous 
on  account  of  his  luxur}',  in  town,  on  the  contrary',  it  '.vould 
be  uncomfortable  for  him  not  to  live  splendidly,  and  as  liis 
equals  in  wealth  do. 

What  seemed  out  of  place  there,  appears  indispensable 
here.  Rich  people  collect  together  in  towns,  and.  under  tlie 
protection  of  the  authorities,  peacefully  enjoy  all  that  has 
been  brought  there  b}'  the  villagers.  A  countryman  often 
cannot  help  going  to  town  луЬеге  a  ceaseless  round  of  feast- 
ing is  going  on,  where  what  has  been  pi'ocured  from  the 
peasants  is  being  spent;  becomes  into  the  town  in  order  to 
feed  "upon  those  crumbs  Avhich  fall  from  the  tables  of  the 
rich  ;  and  partly  by  observing  the  careless,  luxurious,  and 
universall}'  approved  mode  of  living  of  these  men,  he  begins 
to  desire  to  order  his  own  affairs  in  such  a  manner  that  he, 
too,  may  be  able  to  work  less,  and  avail  himself  more  of 
the  labor  of  others.  And  at  last  he  decides  to  settle  down 
in  the  neighborhood  of  the  wealthy,  trying  by  ever}'  means  in 
his  power  to  get  back  from  them  what  is  necessar}'  for  him, 
and  submitting  to  all  the  conditions  Avhich  the  rich  enforce. 
These  countr\-  people  assist  in  gratifying  all  the  fancies  of 
the  wealthy :  the}-  serve  tliem  in  public  baths,  in  taverns,  as 
coachmen,  and  as  prostitutes.  They  manufacture  carriages, 
make  toys  and  dresses,  and  little  b}"  little  learn  from  their 
wealthy  neighbors  how  to  live  like  them,  not  by  real  labor, 
but  by  all  sorts  of  tricks,  squeezing  out  from  others  the 
money  they  have  collected,  and  so  become  depraved,  and  are 
ruined.  It  is  then  this  same  population,  depraved  by  the 
wealth  of  towns,  which  forms  that  cit}'  miser}'  which  I 
wished  to  relieve,  but  could  not. 

And  indeed,  if  one  only  reflects  upon  the  condition  of 
these  country  folk  coming  to  town  in  order  to  earn  money 
to  buy  bread  or  to  pay  taxes,  seeing  everywhere  thousands 
of  rubles  foolishly  squandered,  and  hundreds  л'егу  easily 
earned,  while  they  have  to  earn  their  pence  by  the  hardest 
labor,  one  cannot  but  be  astonished  that  there  are  still  many 
of  such  people  at  work,  and  that  they  do  not  all  of  them 
have  recourse  to  a  more  easy  way  of  getting  money,  —  by 
trade,  begging,  лчсе,  cheating,  and  even  robbery. 

But  it  is  only  we  who  join  in  the  ceaseless  orgy  going  on  in 
the  towns  who  can  get  so  accustomed  to  our  own  mode  of 
life,  that  it  seems  quite  natural  to  us  for  one  fine  gentleman 


WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN?  53 

to  occupy  five  large  rooms  which  are  lioated  with  such  a  quan- 
tity of  firewood  as  would  be  euougli  for  tweut}'  fauiilies  to 
warm  their  homes,  and  coolv  their  food  with.  To  driv^e  a 
sliort  distance,  we  emplo}'  two  thorouglibreds  and  two  men  ; 
we  cover  our  inlaid  tlcjors  with  carpets,  and  spend  five  or  ten 
thousand  rubles  on  a  ball,  or  even  twenty-five  for  a  Christ- 
mas-tree, and  so  on.  Yet  a  man  who  needs  ten  rubles  in 
order  to  buy  bread  for  his  family,  or  from  whom  his  last 
sheep  is  taicen  to  meet  a  tax  of  seven  rubles  which  he  can- 
not save  by  the  hardest  labor,  cannot  get  accustomed  to  all 
tills,  which  we  imagine  must  seem  quite  natural  to  the  poor ; 
there  are  even  such  naive  peoj^le  as  say  that  the  poor  are 
thankful  to  us  because  we  feed  them  by  living  so  luxuri- 
ously. 

But  poor  people  do  not  lose  their  reasoning  powers  1)ecause 
the\"  are  poor:  they  reason  quite  in  the  same  manner  as  we 
do.  When  we  have  heard  that  some  one  has  lost  a  fortune 
at  cards,  or  squandered  ten  or  twenty  thousand  rubles,  the 
first  thought  tliat  comes  into  our  minds  is  :  How  stupid  and 
bad  this  man  must  be  to  have  parted  with  such  a  large  sum 
without  any  equivalent ;  and  how^  well  I  could  have  em[)loyed 
this  mone}-  for  some  building  I  have  long  wanted  to  get  done, 
or  for  the  improvement  of  nn^  estate,  and  so  on. 

80  also  do  the  poor  reason  on  seeing  how  foolishly  we 
waste  our  wealth  ;  all  the  more  forcil)ly,  i)ecause  tills  money 
is  needed,  not  to  satisfy  their  whims,  but  for  the  chief  neces- 
saries of  life,  of  which  they  are  in  want.  We  are  greatly 
mistaken  in  thinking  that  the  poor,  while  alileto  reason  thus, 
still  look  on  unconcernedly  at  the  luxury  around  them. 

They  have  never  acknowledged,  and  fiever  will,  that  it  is 
right  for  one  man  to  be  always  iflling,  and  for  another  to  be 
continually  working.  At  first  they  are  astonished  at  it  and 
offended  ;  then,  looking  closer  into  the  question,  they  see  that 
this  order  of  things  is  acknowleilgcd  to  be  lawful,  and  thej' 
try  themselves  to  get  rid  of  working,  and  to  take  part  in  the 
feasting.  Some  succeed  in  so  doing,  and  acquire  similar 
wanton  habits  ;  others,  little  by  little,  approach  such  a  condi- 
tion ;  others  break  down  before  they  reach  their  object,  and, 
having  lost  the  habit  of  working,  fill"  the  night-houses  and  the 
haunts  of  A'ice. 

The  year  before  last  we  took  from  the  village  a  young 
peasant  to  be  our  butler's  assistant.  He  could  not  agree 
with  the  footman,  and  was  sent  away  ;  he  entered  the  service 


54  WnAT  MUST    WE  no    THEY? 

of  a  merchant,  pleased  his  masters,  and  now  wears  a  watch 
and  chain,  and  has  smart  boots. 

In  his  place  we  took  another  peasant,  a  mai'ried  man.  He 
turned  out  a  drnnkard,  and  lost  money.  AVe  took  a  third  :  he 
began  to  drink,  and.  having  drunk  up  all  he  had,  was  for  a 
long  time  in  distress  in  a  night-lodging-house.  Our  old  cook 
took  to  drinking  in  the  town,  and  fell  ill.  Last  3'ear  a  foot- 
man who  used  formerly  to  have  fits  of  drunkenness,  and  who 
when  in  the  village  kept  himself  from  it  for  five  years,  when 
living  in  Moscow  without  his  wife,  who  used  to  keep  him  in 
order,  began  again  to  drink,  and  ruined  himself.  A  young 
boy  of  our  village  is  living  as  butler's  assistant  at  my 
brother's.  His  grandfather,  a  blind  old  man,  came  to  me 
while  I  was  living  in  the  country,  and  asked  me  to  persuade 
this  grandson  to  send  ten  rubles  for  taxes.  Iiecause,  unless 
this  were  done,  the  cow  w'ould  have  to  be  sold. 

"  He  keeps  telling  me  that  he  has  to  dress  himself  i-espect- 
alil}',"  said  the  oUl  man.  "  He  got  himself  boots,  and  that 
ought  to  be  enough  ;  but  I  actually  believe  he  would  like  to 
bu}^  a  watch  !  " 

in  these  words  the  grandfather  expressed  the  utmost 
degree  of  extravagance.  And  this  was  really  so  :  for  the  old 
man  could  not  afford  a  drop  of  oil  for  his  food  during  the 
whole  of  Lent,  and  his  wood  was  spoilt  because  he  had  not 
the  ruble  and  a  quai'ter  necessar}'  for  cutting  it  up.  But  the 
old  man's  jrony  turned  out  to  be  a  reality.  His  grandson 
came  to  me  dressed  in  a  fine  black  overcoat,  and  in  boots  for 
which  he  had  paid  eight  rubles.  Lately  he  got  ten  ru1)les 
from  my  brother,  and  spent  them  on  his  boots.  And  ni}' 
children,  wiio  have  known  the  boy  from  his  infancy,  told  me 
that  he  really  considers  it  necessary  to  buy  a  watcii.  He  is 
a  very  good  boy,  but  he  considers  that  he  will  be  laughed  at 
for  not  having  one. 

This  year  a  housemaid,  eighteen  years  of  age,  formed  an 
intimacy  with  the  coachman,  and  was  sent  away.  Our  old 
nurse,  to  wdiom  I  related  the  case,  reminded  me  of  a  girl 
whom  1  had  quite  forgotten.  Ten  3'ears  ago,  during  our 
short  stay  in  ^loscow,  she  formed  an  intimacy  with  a  foot- 
man. She  was  also  sent  awa}',  and  drifted  at  last  into  a 
house  of  ill-f;ime,  and  died  in  a  hospital  before  she  was 
twenty  years  of  age. 

We  have  only  to  look  around  us  in  order  to  become  leriified 
by  that  infection   whicli    (to  say  nothing   of    nmnufactories 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  55 

and  workshops  existing  only  to  gratify  our  luxury)  we  di- 
rectly, by  our  luxurious  town  life,  spread  among  those  very 
people  whom  we  desire  afterwai'ds  to  help. 

Thus,  having  got  at  the  root  of  that  town  misery  which  1 
was  not  able  to  alleviate.  I  saw  that  its  first  cause  is  in  our 
taking  from  the  villagers  their  necessaries  and  carrying  them 
to  town.  The  second  cause  is,  that  in  those  towns  we  avail 
ourselves  of  Avhat  we  have  gathered  from  the  country,  and, 
by  our  foolish  luxury,  tempt  and  deprave  those  peasants  who 
follow  us  there  in  order  to  get  back  something  of  what  we 
have  taken  from  them  in  the  country. 


XIV. 

From  an  opposite  point  of  view  to  that  previoush'  stated, 
I  again  came  to  the  same  conclusion.  KecoUectiiig  all  my 
connection  with  the  town  poor  during  this  period,  1  saw  that 
one  reason  why  I  was  not  able  to  help  them  was  their  insin- 
cerity and  falseness.  They  all  considered  me  not  as  an 
individual,  but  merely  as  a  means  to  an  end.  I  felt  I  could 
not  become  intimate  with  them  :  I  thought  I  did  not  perhaps 
understand  how  to  do  so  ;  but  without  truthfulness,  no  help 
was  possible.  How  can  one  help  a  man  who  does  not  tell  all 
his  circumstances?  Formerly  I  accused  the  poor  of  this, — 
it  is  so  natural  to  accuse  others  ;  but  one  word  spoken  by 
a  remarkable  man,  namely,  Sutaief,  who  was  then  on  a  visit 
at  my  house,  cleared  up  the  difficulty,  and  showed  me  wherein 
lay  the  cause  of  my  non-success. 

I  remember  that  even  then  what  he  said  made  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  me  ;  but  I  did  not  understand  its  full  meaning 
until  afterwards.  It  haijpened  that  while  in  the  full  ardor 
of  my  self-deception,  I  was  at  my  sister's  house,  Sutaief 
being  also  there  ;  and  my  sister  was  questioning  me  about 
my  work. 

I  was  relating  it  to  her ;  and,  as  is  often  the  case  when 
one  does  not  fully  believe  in  one's  own  enterprises,  I  related 
with  great  enthusiasm,  ardor,  and  at  full  length,  all  I  had 
been  doing,  and  all  the  possible  results.  I  was  telling  her 
how  we  should  keep  our  ез^ез  open  to  what  went  on  in  Mos- 
cow ;  how  we  should  take  care  of  orphans  and  old  people  ; 
how  we  should  afford  means  to  imi)overislied  villagers  to 
return    to    their  homes,  and    pave    tlie  way  to    reform    the 


56  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

depraved.  I  explained,  that,  if  we  succeeded  in  our  iinder- 
tiiking,  there  w{)ui<i  not  be  iu  Moscow  a  single  [юиг  uuin  who 
could  not  find  help. 

My  sister  SN'mpathized  with  me  ;  and  while  speakiiii.':.  I  kept 
looking  now  and  then  at  Sntaief,  knowing  his  Chiistian  hU-, 
and  the  importance  attached  by  him  to  works  of  charity.  I 
expected  sympathy  from  him,  and  1  spoke  so  that  he  miglit 
miderstand  me  ;  for,  though  I  was  addressing  my  histev,  yet 
my  conversation  ^vas  really  more  directed  to  him. 

He  sat  immovable,  dressed  in  his  black-tanned  sheepskin 
coat,  which  he,  like  other  peasants,  wore  in-doors  as  well  as 
out.  It  seemed  that  he  was  not  listening  to  us,  but  w:;s 
thinking  about  something  else.  His  small  eyes  gave  no  le- 
responding  gleam,  but  seemed  to  be  turned  inwards.  Havin.g 
spoken  out  to  my  own  satisfaction,  I  turned  to  him  and  asked 
bim  what  he  thought  about  it. 

''  'llie  whole  thing  is  superficial,"  he  replied. 

'^Why?" 

"  Tlie  i^lan  is  an  empty  one,  and  Uo  good  will  come  of  it," 
he  i-(>peated  with  conviction. 

''  How  is  it  that  nothing  will  come  of  it?  Why  is  it  a 
useless  business,  if  we  help  thousands,  or  even  hundreds,  of 
unhappy  ones?  Is  it  a  bad  thing,  according  to  the  gosi)el, 
to  clothe  the  naked,  or  to  feed  the  hungry?  " 

'•I  know,  I  know;  but  what  yon  are  doing  is  not  that. 
Is  it  possible  to  help  thus?  You  are  walking  in  the  street; 
somebody  asks  you  for  a  few  kopeks;  you  give  it  him.  Is 
that  charity?  Do  him  some  S[)iritual  good :  teach  hiin  .  .  . 
what  you  gave  him  merely'  says,  '  Leave  me  alone.'  " 

''  No  ;  but  that  is  not  what  we  were  speaking  of  :  we  wish 
to  become  acquainted  with  the  wants,  and  then  help  by 
money  and  by  deeds.  We  will  try  to  tind  for  the  poor  people 
some  work  to  do." 

'■'•  That  would  be  no  way  of  helping  them." 

''How  then?  must  they  be  left  to  die  of  starvation  and 
cold?" 

*'  Why  left  to  die?     How  many  are  there  of  them?  " 

"How  many?"  said  I,  thinking  that  he  took  the  matter 
so  lightly  from  not  knowing  the  great  number  of  these  men. 

"  Yon  are  not  aware,  I  dare  say,  that  there  are  in  Moscow 
about  twenty  thousand  cold  and  hungry.  And  then,  think 
of  those  in  St.  Petersburg  and  other  towns!  " 

He  smiled. 


WHAT  3IUST    WE  DO    THEN?  57 

"  Twenty  thousand  !  And  how  many  families  are  there  in 
Russia  alone?     Would  they  amount  to  a  million?  " 

"  Well ;  but  what  of  that?  " 

"  What  of  that?"  said  he,  with  animation,  and  his  eyes 
sparkled.  "  Let  us  unite  them  with  ourselves  ;  I  am  not 
rich  myself,  but  will  at  once  take  two  of  them.  You  take  a 
young  fellow  into  your  kitchen  :  I  invite  him  into  my  family. 
If  there  were  ten  times  as  many,  we  should  take  them  all  into 
our  families.  You  one,  I  another.  We  shall  work  together  ; 
those  I  take  to  live  with  meAvill  see  how  1  work  ;  I  will  teach 
them  to  reap,  and  we  shall  cat  out  of  one  Ijowl,  at  one  table  ; 
and  they  will  hear  a  good  word  from  me,  and  from  you  also. 
This  is  charity  ;  but  all  this  plan  of  yours  is  no  good." 

These  plain  woi'ds  made  an  impression  upon  me.  I  could 
not  help  recognizing  that  this  was  true  ;  but  it  seemed  to  me 
then,  that,  notwithstanding  the  justice  of  what  he  said,  my 
Ijroposed  plan  might,  perhaps,  also  be  useful. 

But  the  longer  1  was  occupied  with  this  affair,  and  the 
closer  my  intercourse  with  the  poor,  the  oftener  I  rt'coUecled 
these  words,  and  the  greater  meaning  I  found  in  them. 

I,  indeed,  go  in  an  expensive  fur  coat,  or  drive  in  my  own 
carriage  to  a  man  who  is  in  want  of  boots  :  he  sees  nn'  house 
which  costs  two  hundred  rubles  a  month,  or  he  notices  that 
T  give  away,  without  thinking,  five  rul)les,  only  because  such 
is  my  fancy  ;  he  is  then  aware  that  if  1  give  away  rubles  in 
such  a  manner,  it  is  because  I  have  accumulated  so  many  of 
them  that  I  have  a  lot  to  spare,  which  I  not  onl}'  am  never 
in  the  habit  of  giving  to  an}-  one,  but  which  I  have,  without 
coni|)unction,  taken  awa}'  from  others.  What  can  he  see  in 
ine  but  one  of  those  persons  who  have  become  possessed  of 
what  should  belong  to  him?  And  what  other  feeling  can  he 
Jiave  towards  me  but  the  desire  to  get  back  as  man}-  as  pos- 
sible of  these  rubles  which  were  taken  by  me  from  him  and 
from  others  ? 

I  should  like  to  become  intimate  with  him,  and  1  complain 
that  he  is  not  sincere  ;  but  I  am  afraid  to  sit  down  щюп  his 
bed  for  fear  of  lice  or  some  infectious  disease  ;  I  am  also 
afraid  to  let  him  come  into  my  room  ;  and  when  he  comes  to 
me  half-dressed,  he  has  to  wait, — if  fortunate,  in  the  en- 
trance-hall, but  oftener  in  the  cold  porch.  And  then  I  say 
that  it  is  all  his  fault  that  I  cannot  become  intimate  with  him, 
and  that  he  is  not  sincere. 

Let   the    most  hard-hearted  man   sit   down  to   dine  upon 


58  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

five  courses  among  hungry  people  who  have  little  or  nothing 
to  eat  except  black  bread,  and  no  one  conld  have  the  heart 
to  eat  while  hungry  people  are  around  him  licking  their  lips. 

Therefore,  in  order  to  eat  well,  when  living  among  half- 
starving  men,  the  first  thing  necessary  is  to  liide  ourselves 
from  them,  and  to  eat  so  that  they  may  not  see  us.  This  is 
the  very  thing  we  do  at  present. 

Without  prejudice  1  Io(^ved  into  our  own  mode  of  life,  and 
became  awaie  that  it  was  not  by  chance  that  closer  inter- 
course with  the  poor  is  difficult  for  us,  but  that  луе  ouiselves 
ai'e  intentionalh'  ordering  our  lives  in  such  a  way  as  to  make 
this  intercourse  impossilile.  And  not  only  this;  but,  on  look- 
ing at  our  lives,  or  at  the  lives  of  ricli  people  from  without, 
I  saw  that  all  that  is  considered  as  the  summum  bonum  of 
these  lives  consists  in  being  separateil  as  much  as  possible 
from  the  poor,  or  is  in  some  way  or  other  connected  with  this 
desired  separation. 

In  fact,  all  the  aim  of  our  lives,  beginning  with  food,  dress, 
dwelling,  cleanliness,  and  ending  with  our  education,  con- 
sists in  placing  a  gulf  between  us  and  them.  And  in  order 
to  estal)lisli  this  distinction  and  separation  we  spend  nine- 
tenths  of  our  wealth  in  erecting  impassable  bai'riers. 

The  first  thing  a  man  does  who  has  grown  rich  is  to  leave 
off  eating  with  others  out  of  one  bowl.  He  ai'ranges 
plates  for  himself  and  his  famil3\  and  separates  himself  from 
the  kitchen  and  the  servants.  He  feeds  his  servants  well,  in 
order  that  their  mouths  may  not  water,  and  he  dines  alone. 
But  eating  alone  is  dull.  He  invents  whatevei'  he  con  to  im- 
prove his  food,  embellish  his  table  ;  and  the  very  manner  of 
taking  food,  as  at  dinner-parties,  becomes  for  him  a  matter 
of  vanity,  of  pride.  His  manner  of  eating  his  food  is  a  means 
of  separating  himself  from  other  people.  For  a  rich  man  it 
is  out  of  the  question  to  invite  a  poor  person  to  his  tabl;^. 
One  must  know  how  to  hand  a  lady  to  table,  how  to  b.ow, 
how  to  sit,  to  eat,  to  use  a  finger-bowl,  all  of  which  the  ricli 
alone  know  how  to  do. 

The  same  holds  good  with  dress. 

If  a  rich  man,  in  order  to  cover  his  body  and  protect  it 
from  cold,  wore  ordinary-  dress,  —  a  jacket,  a  fur  coat,  felt 
shoes,  leather  boots,  an  undercoat,  trousers,  a  shirt, — he 
would  require  л'сгу  little  ;  and,  having  two  fur  coats,  he  could 
not  help  giving  one  away  to  somel)ody  who  had  none.  l>ut 
the  wealthy  man  begins  with  wearing  clothes  which  consist 


WHAT  31  if  ST    WE  1)0    THEN?  59 

of  many  separate  parts,  and  can  be  of  use  only  on  particular 
occasions,  and  therefore  are  of.no  use  for  a  poor  man.  The 
man  of  fashion  must  have  evening  dress-coats,  waistcoats, 
frock-coats,  patent-leather  shoes :  his  wife,  bodices  and 
dresses  (which,  according  to  fashion,  are  made  of  many 
parts),  high-heeled  shoes,  hunting  and  travelling  jackets, 
and  so  on.  All  these  articles  can  be  of  use  only  to  people 
in  a  condition  far  removed  from  poverty. 

And  thus  dressing  also  becomes  a  means  of  isolation. 
Fashions  make  their  ai)pearauce,  and  are  among  the  chief 
things  which  separate  the  rich  man  from  the  i)oor  one. 

The  same  thing  shows  itself  more  plainly  still  in  our  dwell- 
ings. In  order  for  one  person  to  occupy  ten  rooms,  we  must 
manage  so  that  he  may  not  be  seen  b}'  people  who  are  living 
by  tens  in  one  room. 

The  richer  a  man  is,  the  more  difficult  it  is  to  get  at  him  ; 
tht^  more  footmen  there  are  between  him  and  people  not  rich, 
the  more  impossible  it  is  for  him  to  receive  a  poor  guest,  to 
let  him  walk  on  carpets,  and  sit  on  satin-covered  chairs. 

The  same  thing  happens  in  travelling.  A  peasant  who 
drives  in  a  cart  or  on  a  carrier's  sledge  must  b^  л'егу  hard- 
hearted if  he  refuses  to  give  a  pedestrian  a  lift ;  he  has 
enough  room,  and  can  do  it.  But  the  richer  the  carriage  is, 
the  more  impossible  it  is  to  put  any  one  in  it  besides  the 
owner  of  it.  Some  of  the  most  elegant  carriages  are  so 
n.iriow  ;is  to  be  termed  ^^  egotists." 

Tlu'  s:nne  thing  applies  to  all  the  modes  of  living  expressed 
by  the  word  '■"cleanliness."  Cleanliness!  Who  does  not 
know  human  beings,  especinlly  women,  who  make  a  great 
virtue  of  cleanliness?  Who  does  not  know  the  various 
phases  of  this  cleanliness,  which  have  no  limit  whatever 
when  it  is  procured  by  the  labor  of  others?  Who  among 
self-made  men  has  not  experienced  in  his  own  peison  with 
what  pains  he  carefully  accustomed  himself  to  this  cleanli- 
ness, which  illustrates  the  saying,  "  White  hands  are  fond  of 
another's  labor  "  ? 

To-day  cleanliness  consists  in  changing  one's  shirt  daily, 
and  to-mori'ow  it  will  be  changed  twice  a  day.  At  tirst,  one 
has  to  wash  one's  hands  and  neck  every  day,  then  one  will 
have  to  wash  one's  feet  every  day,  and  afterwaids  it  will  be 
the  whole  body,  and  in  i)eculiar  methods.  A  clean  table- 
cloth serves  for  two  days,  then  it  is  changed  every  day,  and 
afterwards  two    table-cloths    a  da3^  are    used.     To-day  the 


60  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Til  EX? 

footman  is  required  to  hav43  clenn  hands:  to-mon•ov^•  he  must 
wear  gloves,  and  clean  gloves,  and  he  must  hand  the  lelteis 
on  a  clean  tray. 

And  there  are  no  limits  to  this  cleanliness,  which  is  of  no 
other  use  to  anj'  one  except  to  sei)arate  us  from  others,  and 
to  make  our  intercourse  with  them  inii)ossible,  while  cleanli- 
ness is  obtained  through  the  lal)or  of  others. 

Not  only  so  ;  but  when  I  had  deeply  reflected  ujion  this,  I 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  \vhat  we  term  education  is  a  sim- 
ilar thing.  Language  cannot  deciiA'e  :  it  gives  the  right  ap- 
pellation to  ever}-  thing.  The  connnon  i)e()iile  call  education 
fashionable  dress,  smart  conversation,  white  hands,  and  a  cer- 
tain degree  of  cleanliness.  Of  such  a  man  they  say,  when 
distinguishing  him  from  others,  that  he  is  an  educated  man. 

In  a  little  higher  circle,  men  by  education  denote  the  same 
things,  but  add  playing  on  the  piano,  the  knowledge  of 
French,  good  Russian  spelling,  and  still  greater  cleanliness. 

In  the  still  higher  circle,  education  consists  of  all  this,  with 
the  addition  of  English,  and  a  diploma  from  a  high  government 
estaV)lishment,  and  a  still  greater  degree  of  cleanliness.  liut 
in  all  these  Shades  education  is  in  substance  quite  the  same. 

It  consists  in  those  forms  and  various  kinds  of  infoimntiun 
which  separate  a  man  from  his  fellow-creatures.  Its  object 
is  the  same  as  that  of  cleanliness  :  to  separate  us  from  the 
crowd,  in  order  that  they,  hungry  and  cold,  may  not  see  how 
we  feast.  But  it  is  impossible  to  hide  ourselves,  and  our 
efforts  are  seen  through. 

And  so  I  became  aware  that  the  cause  of  the  impossil:ility 
for  us  riph  men  to  help  the  town  poor  was  nothing  more  or 
less  than  the  impossibility  of  our  having  closer  intercourse 
with  them,  and  that  this  we  ourselves  create  by  our  wdiole 
life,  and  by  all  the  uses  we  make  of  our  wealth.  I  became 
persuaded  that  between  us  rich  men  and  the  poor  there 
stood,  erected  by  ourselves,  a  barrier  of  cleanliifoss  and  edu- 
cation which  arose  out  of  our  wealth,  and  that,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  help  them,  we  have  first  to  break  down  this  barrier, 
and  render  possible  the  realization  of  the  means  suggested 
by  Sutaief,  to  take  the  poor  into  our  respective  homes. 
And  so,  as  I  have  already  said  at  the  beginning  of  this  chap- 
ter, I  came  to  the  same  conclusion  from  a  different  point  of 
view  from  that  to  which  the  train  of  thought  about  town 
misery  had  led  me;  viz.,  the  cause  of  it  all  lay  in  our 
wealth. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  61 


XV. 

I  BEGAN  again  to  analyze  the  matter  from  a  third  and 
purely  personal  point  of  view.  Among  the  plienomena 
which  particularly  impressed  me  during  my  benevolent  ac- 
tivity, there  was  one,  — a  very  strange  one,  —  which  I  could 
not  understand  for  a  longtime. 

Whenever  1  happened,  in  the  street  or  at  home,  to  give  a 
poor  person  a  trifling  sum  without  entering  into  conversation 
with  him,  I  saw,  or  imagined  I  saw,  on  his  face  an  expres- 
sion of  pleasure  and  gratitude  ;  and  I  myself  experienced  an 
agreeable  feeling  at  this  form  of  charit}'.  I  saw  that  I  had 
done  what  was  expected  of  me.  But  when  I  stopped  and 
began  to  question  the  man  about  his  past  and  present  life, 
entering  more  or  less  into  particulars,  I  felt  it  was  impossible 
to  give  him  any  thing  ;  and  I  always  began  to  finger  the  mone}' 
in  my  purse,  and,  not  knowing  how  much  to  give,  I  alwa^'s 
gave  more  under  these  circumstances  :  but,  nevertheless,  I  saw 
that  the  poor  man  went  away  from  me  dissatisfied.  When  I 
entered  into  still  closer  intercourse  with  him,  mj-  doubts  as  to 
how  much  I  should  give  increased  ;  and,  no  matter  what  I 
gave,  the  recipient  seemed  more  and  more  gloomy  and  dis- 
satisfied. 

As  a  general  rule,  it  almost  always  liappened  that  if,  и\юп 
nearer  accpiaintance  with  the  poor  man,  I  gave  him  three 
rubles  or  moie.  I  always  saw  gloominess,  dissatisfaction,  and 
even  anger  depicted  on  his  face  ;  and  sometimes,  after  hav- 
ing received  fro.m  me  ten  rubles,  he  has  left  me  without  even 
thanking  me,  as  if  I  had  offended  him. 

In  such  cases  I  was  always  uncomfortable  and  ashamed, 
and  felt  myself  guilty.  When  I  watched  the  poor  person  dur- 
ing weeks,  months,  or  years,  helped  him,  and  expressed  my 
A'iews,  and  became  intimate  with  him,  then  our  intercourse 
became  a  torment,  and  I  saw  tiiat  the  man  (lesi)ised  me. 
And  I  felt  that  he  was  right  in  doing  so.  AVhen  in  the  street 
a  beggar  asks  me,  along  with  other  passers-b}',  for  three 
kopeks,  and  I  give  it  him,  then,  in  his  estimation,  I  am  a 
kind  and  good  man  who  gives  ''  one  of  the  threads  which  go 
to  make  tlu;  shirt  of  a  naked  one  :  "  he  expects  nothing  more 
than  a  thread,  and,  if  I  give  it.  he  sincerely  blesses  me. 

But  if  I  stop  and  speak  to  liim  as  man  to  man,  show  him 
that  1  wish  to  be  пиле  than  a  mere  passer-by,  and,  as  it  often 


62  U'lIAT  MUST    WE   DO    Til  EX? 

liaj)peno(l.  !ie  sheds  tears  in  relating  his  nii.^f'ortnne.  then  he 
sees  in  me  not  merely  a  elutnce  helper,  but  that  uhie'i  1  wi.sh 
him  to  see,  —  a  kind  num.  If  I  am  a  kind  man,  ihen  my 
kindness  cannot  stop  at  twenty  kopeks,  or  at  ten  rubles,  or 
ten  thousand.  One  cannot  be  a  second-rate  kind  man.  Let 
us  suppose  that  I  give  him  much  ;  that  1  [)Ut  him  straight, 
dress  him,  set  him  on  his  legs  so  that  he  can  help  himself, 
but,  from  some  I'eason  or  other,  either  from  an  accident  or 
his  own  weakness,  he  again  loses  the  great-coat  and  cloth- 
ing and  money  I  gave  him,  he  is  again  hungry  and  cokL  and 
he  again  comes  to  me,  why  should  1  refuse  him  assistance  ? 
For  if  the  end  of  my  benevolent  activit}'  was  merely'  the  at- 
tainment of  some  delinite,  material  object,  such  as  giving 
him  so  many  rubles,  or  a  certain  great-coat,  having  given 
them  I  could  be  easy  in  my  mind  ;  but  the  end  I  have  in  vi^'W 
is  to  be  a  benevolent  man  ;  that  is,  to  put  myself  in  the 
position  of  every  other  man.  All  understand  kindness  thus, 
and  not  otherwise. 

And  therefore,  if  such  a  man  should  spend  in  drink  all 
you  gave  him  twenty  times  over,  and  be  again  hnngiy  and 
cold,  then,  if  vou  are  a  benevolent  man,  you  cannot  help 
giving  him  more  money,  you  can  never  leave  off  doing  so 
while  yon  have  more  than  he  has  ;  but  if  you  draw  back, 
you  show  that  all  you  have  done  before  was  done  by  л'оп 
not  because  you  are  benevolent,  but  because  you  wish  to 
ap|)ear  so  to  others  and  to  him.  And  it  was  from  my  having 
to  back  out  of  such  cases,  and  by  ceasing  to  give,  b}'  seem- 
ing to  put  a  limit  to  nn'  kindness,  that  1  felt  a  painful  sense 
of  shame. 

What  was  this  feeling,  then?  I  had  experienced  it  in 
Liapin's  house  and  in  the  coinitry.  and  when  I  ha|)pened  to 
give  money  or  any  thing  else  to  the  poor,  and  in  my  adven- 
tures among  the  town  people.  One  case  which  occurred  to 
me  lately  reminded  nie  of  it  forcibly,  and  led  me  to  discover 
its  cause. 

Itha|)[)ened  in  the  country.  I  wanted  twenty  kopeks  to  give 
to  a  pilgrim.  I  sent  m}'  son  to  borrow  it  from  somebody'. 
lie  brought  it  to  the  man,  and  told  me  that  he  had  borrowed 
it  from  the  cook.  Some  days  after  other  pilgrims  came, 
and  I  was  again  in  need  of  twenty  kopeks.  I  had  a  ruble. 
I  lecoUected  what  I  owed  the  cook,  went  into  the  kitchen, 
hoping  that  she  would  have  some  more  coppers.     I  said, — ■ 

""  1  owe  you  twenty  kopeks  :   here  is  a  ruble." 


WUAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  63 

I  had  not  yet  done  speaking  when  the  cook  called  his  wife 
from  the  adjoining  room  :   '•  Parasha,  take  it,"  he  said. 

I,  thinking  she  had  understood  Avhat  I  wanted,  gave  her 
the  ruble.  I  must  tell  you  that  the  cook  had  been  living  at 
our  house  about  a  week,  and  I  had  seen  his  wife,  but  had 
never  spoken  to  her.  I  just  wished  to  tell  her  to  give  me 
the  change,  wiien  she  briskly  bowed  herself  over  my  hand, 
and  was  about  to  kiss  it,  evidently  thinking  I  was  giving  her 
the  rul)le.  I  stammered  out  something  and  left  the  kitchen. 
I  felt  ashamed,  painfully  ashamed,  as  J  had  not  felt  for  a  long 
time.  I  actually  trembled,  and  felt  that  I  was  making  a  wry 
face  ;  and,  groaning  with  shame,  1  ran  away  from  the  kitchen. 

This  feeling  which  I  fancied  I  had  not  deserved,  and  which 
came  over  me  quite  unexpectedly,  impressed  me  particularly, 
because  it  was  so  long  since  I  had  felt  any  thing  like  it,  and 
also  because  I  fancied  that  I  had  been  living  in  a  way  there 
was  no  reason  fpr  me  to  be  ashamed  of. 

This  surprised  me  greatly.  I  related  the  case  to  my  family, 
to  my  acquaintances,  and  they  all  agreed  that  they  also  would 
have  experienced  the  same.  And  1  began  to  reflect :  why  is 
it  that  1  felt  so  ? 

The  answer  came  from  a  case  лvhich  had  formerly  occurred 
to  me  in  Moscow.  I  reflected  upon  it,  and  understood  this 
shame  which  1  have  alwa^'s  experienced  when  I  hai)pen  to 
give  any  thing  besidrs  trifling  alms  to  beggars  and  pilgrims, 
which  1  am  accustomed  to  give,  and  which  I  consider  not  as 
charity,  but  politeness. 

If  a  man  asks  you  for  a  light,  you  must  light  a  match  if 
you  have  it.  If  a  man  begs  for  three  or  twenty  kopeivs,  or  a 
few  rul)lcs,  you  must  give  if  3'ou  have  them.  It  is  a  question 
of  politeness,  not  of  charity. 

The  following  is  the  case  I  referred  to.  I  have  already 
spoken  about  two  peasants  with  whom  I  sawed  wood  three 
years  ago.  One  Saturdaj'  evening,  in  the  twilight,  I  was 
walking  with  them  back  to  town.  They  were  going  to  their 
master  to  receive  their  wages.  On  crossing  a  bridge  we  met 
an  old  man.  He  begged,  and  I  gave  him  twenty'  kopeks.  I 
gave,  thinking  what  a  good  impression  my  alms  would  make 
upon  Semyon,  with  whom  I  luul  been  speaking  on  religious 
questions. 

Semyon.  a  peasant  from  the  province  of  Vladimir,  who 
had  a  wife  and  two  children  in  Moscow,  also  turned  u[)  the 
lappet  of  hib  kaftan,  and  touk  out  his  purae  ;  and,  after  having 


64  WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN? 

looked  over  his  mono}',  he  picked  out  a  three-kopck  piece, 
gave  it  to  the  old  man,  and  asked  for  two  kopeks  back. 
The  old  man  showed  him  in  his  iiand  two  three-koi)('k  pieces 
and  a  single  kopek.  .Semycni  looked  at  it,  was  ai)ont  to  take 
one  kopek,  but,  changing  his  mind,  tot^v  off  his  ca|).  ci'osseil 
himself,  and  went  away,  leaving  the  old  man  the  three-kopek 
piece. 

I  was  acquainted  w\t\\  all  Semvon's  pecuniar}'  circum- 
stances. He  had  neither  house  nor  other  i)roperty.  When 
he  gave  the  old  man  the  three  kopeks,  he  possessed  six  rubles 
and  lifty  kopeks,  which  he  had  been  saving  up,  and  tliis  was 
all  the  capital  he  had. 

M}^  property  amounted  to  about  six  hundred  thousand 
rubles.  I  had  a  wife  and  children,  so  also  had  Semyon.  He 
was  younger  than  I,  and  had  not  so  many  children  ;  but  his 
children  were  young,  and  two  of  mine  were  grown-up  men, 
old  ;enongh  to  work,  so  that  our  circumstances,  independently 
of  our  property,  were  alike,  though  I  was  in  this  respect 
even  better  off  than  he. 

He  gave  three  kopeks,  I  gaA'e  twenty.  What  was,  then, 
the  difference  in  our  gifts?  What  should  I  have  given  in 
order  to  do  as  he  had  done?  He  had  six  hundred  kopeks; 
out  of  these  he  gave  one,  and  then  another  two.  I  had  six 
hundred  thousand  rubles.  In  oider  to  give  as  much  as  Sem- 
yon gaA'e.  I  ought  to  have  given  three  thousand  rubles,  and 
asked  the  man  to  give  me  back  two  thousand  ;  and,  in  the 
event  of  his  not  having  change,  to  leave  him  these  two 
thousand  also,  cross  myself,  and  go  away  calmly,  conversing 
about  how  people  Ил^е  in  the  manufactories,  anil  what  is  the 
price  of  liver  at  the  Smolensk  market. 

I  thought  about  this  at  the  time,  but  it  was  long  before  I 
was  able  to  draw  from  this  case  the  conclusion  which  inevi- 
tably follows  from  it.  This  conclusion  seems  to  be  so  un- 
common and  strai]ge,  notwithstanding  its  mathematical  accu- 
racy, that  it  re(inires  time  in  order  to  get  accustomed  to  it. 
I  could  not  help  thinking  there  was  some  mistake  in  it,  but 
there  is  none.  It  is  only  the  dreadful  darkness  of  prejudice 
in  which  we  live. 

This,  when  I  arrived  at  it  and  recognized  its  inevitable- 
ness,  explained  to  me  the  nature  of  my  feelings  of  shame  in 
the  presence  of  the  cook's  wife,  and  before  all  the  ]юог  to 
whom  I  gave  and  still  give  money.  Indeed,  what  is  that 
money  which   I  give  to  the  poor,  and  which  the  cook's  wife 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  65 

thought  I  was  giving  her?  In  the  majority  of  cases  it  forms 
such  a  minute  part  of  my  income  that  it  cannot  be  expressed 
ill  a  fraction  comprehensible  to  Semyon  or  to  a  cook's  wife, 
—  it  is  in  most  cases  a  millionth  part  or  thereabout.  I  give 
so  little  that  my  gift  is  not,  and  cannot  be,  a  sacrifice  to  me  : 
it  is  only  a  something  with  which  I  amuse  myself  when  and 
how  it  pleases  me.  And  this  was  indeed  how  my  cook's 
wife  had  understood  me.  If  I  gave  a  stranger  in  the  street 
a  ruble  or  twent}'  kopeks,  why  should  I  not  give  her  also  a 
ruble?  For  her,  such  a  distribution  of  money  was  the  same 
thing  as  a  gentleman  throwing  gingerbread  nuts  into  a  crowd. 
It  is  the  amusement  of  people  who  possess  much  "  fool's 
money."  I  was  ashamed,  Ijecause  the  mistake  of  the  cook's 
wife  showed  me  plainly  what  ideas  she  and  all  poor  people 
must  have  of  me.  "  He  is  throwing  awa}'  a  '  fool's  money  ;'  " 
that  is,  money  not  earned  by  him. 

And,  indeed,  what  is  my  money,  and  how  did  I  come  by 
it?  One  part  of  it  I  collected  in  the  shape  of  rent  for  my 
land,  which  I  had  inherited  from  my  father.  The  peasant 
sold  his  last  sheep  or  cow  in  order  to  pay  it  to  me. 

Another  part  of  my  money  I  received  for  the  books  I  had 
written.  If  1113'  books  are  harmful,  and  yet  sell,  the}'  can 
only  do  so  by  some  seductive  attraction,  and  the  money 
which  I  receive  for  them  is  badly  earned  money  ;  but  if  my 
books  are  useful,  the  thing  is  still  worse.  I  do  not  give 
them  to  people,  but  say,  ''  Give  me  so  many  rubles,  and  I 
will  sell  them  to  you." 

And  as  in  the  former  case  a  peasant  sells  his  last  sheep, 
here  a  poor  student  or  a  teacher  does  it :  each  poor  person 
who  buys  denies  himself  some  necessary  thing  in  order  to 
give  me  this  money.  And  now  I  have  gathered  much  of 
such  money,  and  what  am  I  doing  with  it?  I  take  it  to 
town,  give  it  to  the  poor  only  when  they  satisfy  all  my 
fancies,  and  come  to  town  to  clean  pavements,  lami)s,  or 
b(X)ts,  to  work  for  me  in  the  factories,  and  so  on.  And  with 
this  money  I  draw  from  them  all  I  can.  I  try  to  give  tliem 
as  little  as  I  can,  and  take  from  them  as  much  as  possible. 

And  now,  (juite  unexpectedly,  I  begin  to  share  all  this  said 
money  with  these  same  poor  persons  for  nothing,  but  not 
indiscriininatel}',  only  as  fancy  prompts  me. 

,  Why  should  not  every  poor  man  expect  that  his  turn  might 
come  to-day  to  be  one  of  such  with  whom  I  amuse  myself  by 
giving  them  my  ''  fool's  money  "  ? 


66  WHAT  Mi^ST    WE  DO    THEN? 

Thus  eveiy  one  regards  me  as  did  the  cook's  wife.  And 
I  had  gone  astray  with  the  notion  that  tliis  was  cliarit\',  — • 
this  taking  away  thousands  with  one  hand,  and  throwing 
koj^eks  with  the  other  to  those  I  select. 

Xo  wonder  I  was  ashamed.  But,  before  beginning  to  do 
good,  1  must  leave  off  the  evil,  and  put  myself  in  a  position 
in  whicli  I  should  cease  to  cause  it.  But  all  my  course  of 
life  is  evil.  If  1  were  to  give  away  a  hundred  thousand,  I 
have  not  yet  put  myself  in  a  condition  in  which  I  could  do 
good,  because  I  have  still  five  hundred  thousand  left. 

It  is  only  when  I  possess  nothing  at  all  that  1  shall  be  able 
to  do  a  little  good  ;  such  as,  for  instance,  the  poor  prostitute 
did  who  nursed  a  sick  woman  and  her  child  for  three  days. 
Yet  this  seemed  to  me  to  be  but  so  little  !  And  1  A^entured 
to  think  of  doing  good  I  One  thing  only  was  true,  which  I 
at  tirst  felt  on  seeing  the  hungry  and  cold  people  outside 
Liapin's  house,  —  that  I  was  guilty  of  that ;  and  that  to 
live  as  I  did  was  impossible,  utterly  impossible.  This  alone 
Avas  true.  But  what  was  to  be  done?  This  question  for  any 
one  interested,  I  will  answer  with  full  particulars,  if  God 
permit  me,  in  the  following  chapters. 


XVI. 

It  was  difficult  for  me  at  last  to  own  this  ;  but  when  I  did 
get  thus  far,  I  was  terrified  at  the  delusion  in  which  I  had 
been  living.  I  had  been  head  over  ears  in  the  mud,  and  I 
had  been  trving  to  drag  others  out  of  it. 

What  is  it  that  I  really  want?  I  want  to  do  good  ;  I  лvant 
to  so  contrive  that  no  human  beings  should  be  hungry  and 
cold,  and  that  men  may  live  as  it  is  proper  for  them  to  live. 
I  desire  this  ;  and  1  see  that  in  consequence  of  all  sorts  of 
violence,  extortions,  and  various  expedients  in  which  I  too 
take  part,  tlie  working  people  are  deprived  of  the  nccessaiy 
things,  and  the  non-working  community,  to  whom  I  also  be- 
long, monopolize  the  labor  of  others.  I  see  that  this  use  of 
other  people's  labor  is  distributed  thus  :  that  the  more  cun- 
ning and  complicated  the  tricks  employed  by  the  man  hnn- 
self  (or  by  those  from  whom  he  has  inherited  his  property), 
the  more  largely  he  employs  the  labors  of  other  people,  and 
the  less  he  works  himself. 

Fu'st  come  the  millionnaires ;  then  the  wealthy  bankers, 


wiJAT  MUST  WE  no  ti:en ?  67 

merchants,  land-owners,  government  functionaries  ;  then  the 
smaller  bankers,  merchants,  government  functionaries,  land- 
owners, to  whom  I  belong  ;  then  shopmen,  publicans,  usurers, 
police  sergeants  and  inspectors,  teachers,  sacristans,  clerks ; 
then,  again,  house-porters,  footmen,  соасфтеп,  water-carters, 
cabmen,  pedlers  ;  and  then,  last  of  all,  tiie  workmen,  factor}' 
hands  and  peasants,  the  number  of  this  class  in  proportion 
to  the  former  being  as  ten  to  one. 

I  see  that  the  lives  of  nine-tenths  of  the  working  people 
essentiall}'  recjuire  exerlion  and  labor  liice  ever}'  other  natural 
mode  of  living  ;  but  that,  in  consequence  of  the  tricks  by 
wliich  the  necessaries  of  life  are  taken  away  from  these 
people,  their  lives  become  every  3'ear  more  difficult,  and  more 
beset  with  privations ;  and  our  lives,  the  lives  of  the  non- 
laboring  community,  owing  to  the  co-operation  of  sciences 
and  arts,  which  have  this  very  end  in  view,  become  every 
year  more  sumptuous,  more  attractive  and  secure. 

I  see  that  in  our  days  the  life  of  a  lai)oring  man,  and 
especially  the  lives  of  old  people,  women,  and  children,  of  the 
working-classes,  are  quite  worn  away  by  increased  lal)or,  not 
in  proportion  to  their  nourishment,  and  that  even  the  very 
first  necessaries  of  life  are  not  secured  to  them.  I  see  that 
side  b  side  with  these  the  lives  of  the  non-laboring  class,  to 
which  I  belong,  are  each  year  more  and  more  filled  up  with 
superfluities  and  luxury,  and  are  becoming  continually  more 
secure :  the  lives  of  the  wealthy  have  attained  to  that  degree 
of  security  of  Avhich  in  olden  times  men  dreamed  onW  in 
fairy-tales,  —  to  the  condition  of  the  owner  of  the  magic 
purse  with  an  '^  inexhaustil)le  ruble  ;  "  to  such  a  state  when 
a  man  not  only  is  entirely  free  from  the  law  of  labor  for  tlie 
sustenance  of  his  life,  but  has  the  possibility  of  enjoying 
without  working  all  the  goods  of  this  life,  and  of  bequeath- 
ing to  his  children,  or  to  any  he  chooses,  this  purse  with  the 
'•  inexhaustible  ruble." 

I  see  that  the  productions  of  the  labor  of  men  pass  over 
more  than  ever  from  the  masses  of  laborers  to  those  of  non- 
laborers  ;  that  the  pyramid  of  the  social  structure  is,  as  it 
Avere,  being  rebuilt,  so  that  the  stones  of  the  foundation  pass 
to  the  top,  and  the  rapidity  of  this  passage  increases  in  a 
kind  of  geometric  progression. 

I  see  that  there  is  going  on  somctliing  like  th;it  which 
would  have  taken  place  in  an  ant-hill,  if  the  society  of  ants 
should  have  lost  the  sense  of  the  general  law,  and  some  of  the 


68  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

ants  were  to  take  the  productions  of  labor  out  of  the  foun- 
dations and  carry  thein  to  the  top  of  the  hill,  making  the 
foundation  narrower  and  narrower,  thus  enlarging  the  top, 
and  by  that  means  making  their  fellows  pass  also  from  the 
foundation  to  the  tojD. 

I  see  that  instead  of  an  ideal,  as  exemplified  in  a  laborious 
life,  men  have  created  the  ideal  of  a  purse  with  an  "  inex- 
haustible ru])le."  The  rich,  I  among  their  number,  arrange 
tliis  ruble  for  ourselves  by  various  artifices  ;  and.  in  order  to 
enjoy  it,  we  locate  ourselves  in  towns,  in  a  place  where  noth- 
ing is  produced,  but  every  thing  is  swallowed  up. 

Tlie  poor  laboring  man,  swindled  in  order  that  the  rich 
may  have  this  magic  ruble,  follows  them  to  town  ;  and  there 
he  also  has  recouise  to  artifices,  either  arranging  matters  so 
that  he  may  work  little  and  enjoy  much,  thus  making  the 
condition  of  workingmen  still  more  heavy,  or,  not  having 
attained  to  this  state,  he  ruins  himself,  and  drifts  into  the 
continually  and  rapidly  increasing  number  of  hungry  and  cold 
tenants  of  night-houses. 

I  belong  to  the  category  of  those  men  who,  by  the  means 
of  these  various  devices,  take  away  from  the  working  people 
the  necessaries  of  life,  and  who  thus  create,  as  it  were,  for 
themselves,  the  inexhaustible  fairy  ruble,  which  tempts  in 
turn  these  unfortunate  ones. 

I  wish  to  hel[)  men  ;  and  therefore  it  is  clear  that,  first  of  all, 
I  ought  on  the  one  side  to  cease  to  plunder  them  as  I  am 
doing  now,  and  on  the  other  I  must  leave  oft"  tempting 
them.  But  I,  by  means  of  most  complicated,  cunning,  and 
wicked  contrivances  practised  for  centuries,  have  made  my- 
self the  owner  of  this  said  ruble  ;  that  is,  have  got  into  such  a 
condition  that  I  may,  while  never  doing  any  thing  myself, 
compel  hundreds  and  thousands  of  people  to  work  for  me, 
and  am  really  availing  myself  of  this  privileged  monopoly, 
liotwithstanding  that  all  the  time  I  imagine  I  pity  these  men, 
and  wish  to  help  them. 

It  is  as  if  I  were  sitting  on  the  neck  of  a  man,  and,  having 
quite  crushed  him  down,  I  compel  him  to  carry  me,  and  will 
not  alight  from  off  his  shoulders,  while  I  assure  myself  and 
others  that  I  am  very  sorry  for  him.  and  wish  to  ease  his  con- 
dition by  every  means  in  mv  power  except  bv  getting  off  his  , 
back.  ^  "  ^ 

Sin-ely  this  is  plain.  If  I  wish  to  help  the  poor,  that  is,  to 
make  the  poor  cease  to  be  poor,  I  ought  not  to  create  these 


WnAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN.'  69 

same  poor.  Yet  I  give  money  according  to  my  fancy  to 
those  who  have  gone  astraVr  iiml  take  away  tens  of  rubles 
from  men  who  have  not  yet  done  so,  thereby  making  them 
poor,  and  at  the  same  time  malving  them  depraved. 

This  is  ver\'  clear ;  but  at  tirst  it  was  for  me  exceedingly 
difficult  to  understand,  without  an}'  modification  or  reserve 
Avhich  would  justify  my  position.  However,  as  soon  as  I 
саше  to  see  my  own  error,  all  that  formerly  appeared  stiange, 
comi)lieated.  clouded,  and  inexplicable,  became  quite  siniiile 
and  intelligible  to  me  ;  and  the  line  of  conduct  which  ensued 
became  both  clear  and  satisfactory  to  my  conscience  b}-  the 
following  considerations. 

Who  am  I  that  desire  to  better  men's  condition?  I  desire 
it ;  and  yet  I  get  up  at  noon,  after  having  played  at  cards  iu 
a  brilliantly  lighted  saloon  during  all  the  previous  night.  I, 
an  enfeebled  and  effeminate  man,  who  thus  require  the  help 
and  services  of  hundreds  of  people,  I  come  to  help  them  1  — 
these  men  who  rise  at  five,  sleep  on  boards,  feed  upon  cab- 
bage and  bread,  understand  how  to  plough,  to  reap,  to  put  a 
handle  to  an  axe,  to  write,  to  harness  horses,  to  sew  ;  men 
who,  b}'  their  strength  and  perseverance  and  self-restraint, 
are  a  hundred  times  stronger  than  I  who  come  to  help 
them. 

AVhat  could  I  have  experienced  in  m}'  intercourse  with 
these  people  but  shame?  The  weakest  of  them,  —  a  drunk- 
ard, an  inhabitant  of  Kzhanoff's  house,  he  whom  they  call 
"  the  sluggard," — is  a  hundred  times  more  laborious  than  I  ; 
his  balance,  so  to  .say,  —  in  other  words,  the  relation  between 
what  he  takes  from  men  and  what  he  gives  them,  —  is  a  thou- 
sand times  more  to  his  credit  than  mine,  when  I  count  what  I 
receive  from  others,  and  what  I  give  them  in  return.  And  to 
such  men  I  go  in  order  to  assist  them. 

I  go  to  help  the  poor.  But  of  the  two,  who  is  the  poorer? 
No  one  is  poorer  than  myself.  I  am  a  weak,  good-foi-noth- 
ing  parasite,  who  can  only  exist  in  verv  peculiar  conditions, 
who  can  li\e  only  when  thousands  of  people  labor  to  support 
this  life  which  is  not  useful  to  any  one.  And  I,  this  very 
caterpillar  which  eats  up  the  leaves  of  a  tree,  wish  to  help 
the  growth  and  the  health  of  the  tree,  and  to  cure  it. 

All  my  life  is  thus  spent :  I  eat,  talk,  and  listen  ;  then  I 
eat,  write,  or  read,  which  are  only  talking  and  listening  in 
another  form;  I  eat  again,  and  \Ллу  ;  then  eat,  talk,  and 
listen,  and  finally  eat  and  go  to  sleep :  and  thus  every  day  is 


то  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

spent ;  I  neither  do  any  thing  else,  nor  nnderstancl  how  to 
do  it.  And  in  order  tliat  I  may  enjoy  tiiis  life,  it  is  necessary 
that  from  morning  till  night,  house-porters,  dvorniks,  cooks, 
male  and  female,  footmen,  coachmen,  and  laundresses,  should 
work,  to  say  nothing  of  the  manual  labor  necessary  in  order 
that  the  coachmen,  co(jks.  footmen,  and  others,  may  have  the 
instruments  and  the  articles  by  which,  and  upon  which,  they 
work  forme,  —  axes,  casks,  brushes,  dishes,  furniture,  glasses, 
wax,  shoe-black,  kerosene,  hay,  wood,  and  food.  And  all 
these  men  and  women  work  hard  all  the  day,  and  evevy  day, 
in  order  that  I  may  talk,  eat,  and  sleep. 

And  I,  this  useless  man,  imagined  that  I  was  able  to  bene- 
fit others,  they  being  the  veiy  same  people  who  were  serving 
mc.  Tiiat  I  did  not  benefit  anyone,  and  that  I  was  ashamed 
of  myself,  is  not  so  astonishing  as  the  fact  that  such  a  foolish 
idea  ever  came  into  my  mind. 

The  woman  who  nursed  the  sick  old  man  helped  him  ;  the 
peasant's  wife,  who  cut  a  slice  of  her  bread  earned  by  her 
from  the  л^егу  sowing  of  the  corn  that  made  it,  helped  the 
hungry  one  ;  Semyon,  who  gave  three  kopeks  which  he  had 
earned,  assisted  the  pilgrim,  because  these  three  kopeks 
really  represented  his  labor;  but  I  had  served  nobody, 
worked  for  no  one,  and  knew  very  well  that  my  money  did 
not  represent  my  labor.  And  so  I  felt  tliat  in  money,  or  in 
money's  worth,  and  in  the  possession  of  it,  there  was  some- 
thing wrong  and  evil ;  tliat  the  money  itself,  and  the  fact  of 
my  iiaving  it,  was  one  of  the  chief  causes  of  those  evils 
which  I  had  seen  before  me,  and  I  asked  myself,  What  is 
money  ? 

XVII. 

Money!     What,  then,  is  money? 

It  is  answered,  money  represents  labor.  I  meet  educated 
people  who  even  assert  that  money  represents  labor  per- 
formed b}'  those  who  possess  it.  I  confess  that  I  myself 
formerly  shared  this  oi)inion,  although  I  did  not  л'егу  clearly 
understand  it.  But  now  it  became  necessary  for  me  to  learn 
thoroughly  what  money  was. 

In  order  to  do  so,  I  addressed  myself  to  science.  Science 
snys  that  money  in  itself  is  neither  unjust  nor  pernicious  ; 
that  money  is  the  natural  result  of  the  conditions  of  social 
life,    and    is   indispensable,    first,    for   convenience   of    ex- 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  71 

change ;  secondl\',  as  a  measure  of  \'aliie ;  thirdly,  for 
saving;  and  fourthl}',  for  payments. 

The  evident  fact  that  wlien  I  liave  in  my  pocket  three 
rubles  to  spare,  whicli  I  am  not  in  need  of,  I  liave  only  to 
whistle,  and  in  every  civilized  town  I  obtain  a  hundred  peo- 
ple ready  for  these  three  rubles,  to  do  the  worst,  most  dis- 
gusting, and  humiliating  act  I  require  ;  and  this  comes  not 
from  money,  but  from  the  very  complicated  condition^  of 
the  economical  life  of  nations. 

Tlie  dominion  of  one  niau  over  others  comes  not  from 
money,  but  from  the  circumstance  that  a  workingman  does 
not  receive  the  full  л^а1ие  of  his  labor ;  and  the  fact  that  he 
does  not  get  the  full  value  of  his  labor,  depends  upon  the 
nature  of  capital,  rent,  and  wages,  and  upon  complicated 
connections  between  them  and  production  itself,  and  between 
the  distribution  and  consumption  of  wealth. 

In  plain  language,  it  means  that  people  who  have  mone}- 
may  twist  around  their  linger  those  who  have  none.  But 
science  says  that  this  is  an  illusion  ;  that  in  every  kind  of 
production  three  factors  take  part,  —  land,  savings  of  labor 
(cai)ital),  and  labor;  and  that  the  dominion  of  the  few 
over  the  man}',  proceeds  from  the  various  connections  be- 
tween these  factors  of  production, — because  the  two  first 
factors,  land  and  capital,  are  not  in  the  hands  of  working 
peoi)le  :  from  this  fact,  and  from  the  various  combinations 
resulting  therefrom,  proceeds  this  domination. 

Whence  comes  the  great  power  of  mone}'  which  strikes  us 
all  with  a  sense  of  its  injustice  and  cruel! /?  Why  is  one 
man  by  the  means  of  money  to  have  dominion  over  others? 
Science  says.  It  comes  from  the  division  of  the  agents  of 
production,  and  from  the  consequent  complicated  combina- 
tions which  oppi'ess  the  workingman. 

This  answer  has  always  appeared  to  me  to  be  strange,  not 
only  because  it  leaves  one  part  of  the  question  unnoticed, 
namely,  the  signification  of  money,  but  also  because  of  the 
division  of  the  factors  of  production,  which  to  an  unin- 
formed man  will  always  appear  artificial,  and  not  in  accord- 
ance with  reality.  It  is  asserted  that  in  елчч'у  production 
three  agents  come  into  operation, — land,  capital,  and  lal)or  ; 
and  along  with  this  division  it  is  understood  that  property 
(or  its  value  in  money)  is  naturally  divided  among  those  who 
possess  one  of  these  agents;  thus,  rent, — the  value  of  tiie 
ground,  —  belongs  to  the  land-owner;  interest  to  the  capi- 
talist ;  and  labor  to  the  workingman. 


72  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

Is  it  really  so  ? 

First,  is  it  true  that  in  every  production  three  agencies 
operate?  Now,  while  I  am  writing  this,  around  me  proceeds 
the  production  of  hay.  Of  wliat  is  this  production  com- 
posed? I  am  told,  of  the  land  which  ])rodaces  tlie  grass,  of 
capital,  —  scythes,  rakes,  pitch-forks,  carts,  —  which  are 
necessary  for  the  housing  of  ha}-,  and  of  labor.  But  I  see 
that  this  is  not  true.  Besides  the  laud,  there  is  the  sun  and 
rain  ;  besides  social  order,  which  has  been  keeping  these 
meadows  from  damage  caused  by  letting  stray  cattle  graze 
upon  them,  the  prudence  of  workmen,  their  knowledge  of 
language,  and  many  other  agencies  of  production,  wliich,  for 
some  unknown  reason,  are  not  taken  into  consideration  by 
political  economy. 

The  power  of  the  sun  is  as  necessary  as  the  land.  I  may 
instance  the  position  of  men  in  Avhich  (as,  for  instance,  in  a 
town)  some  of  them  assume  the  right  to  keep  out  the  sun 
from  others  by  means  of  walls  or  trees.  Why,  then,  is  this 
sun  not  inchided  among  the  agents  of  production? 

Rain  is  another  means  as  necessary  as  the  ground  itself. 
The  air  too.  I  can  picture  to  m3'self  the  position  of  men 
without  water  and  pure  air,  because  other  men  assume  to 
themselves  the  right  to  monopolize  these,  which  are  essentially 
necessary  to  all.  Public  security  is  likewise  a  necessary 
element ;  food  and  dress  for  workmen  are  similar  means  in 
production  ;  this  last  is  even  recognized  by  some  economists. 
Education,  the  knowledge  of  language  which  creates  tlie 
possibility  of  reasonable  work,  is  likewise  an  agent.  I  could 
fill  a  volume  by  enumerating  such  combinations,  unnoticed 
by  science. 

Why,  then,  are  three  only  to  be  chosen  and  laid  as  a  foun- 
dation for  the  science  of  political  economy  ?  Why  are  the 
rays  of  the  sun,  rain,  food,  knowledge,  not  equally  recog- 
nized? AVhy  only  the  land,  the  instruments  of  labor,  and 
the  labor  itself?  Simply  because  the  riglit  of  men  to  enjoj' 
the  rays  of  the  sun,  rain,  food,  speech,  and  audience,  are 
challenged  only  on  rare  occasions  ;  but  the  use  of  land,  and 
of  the  instruments  of  labor,  are  constantly  challenged  in 
society. 

This  is  the  true  foundation  for  it ;  and  the  division  of 
these  agents  for  production,  into  three,  is  quite  arliitrary, 
and  is  not  involved  in  the  nature  of  things.  But  it  may 
perhaps  be  urged,  that  this  division  is  so  suitable  to  man,  that. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN?  73 

wherever  economical  relationships  form  themselves,  there 
these  appear  at  once  and  alone. 

Let  us  see  whether  it  is  really  so.  First  of  all,  I  look  at 
what  is  around  nie,  —  at  Russian  colonists,  of  whom  millions 
liave  for  long  existed.  They  come  to  a  land,  settle  themselves 
on  it.  and  begin  to  labor  ;  and  it  does  not  enter  into  the  mind 
of  any  one  of  them,  that  a  man  who  does  not  use  the  land 
could  have  any  claim  to  it,  and  the  land  does  not  assert  any 
rights  of  its  own  ;  on  the  contrary,  the  colonists  conscien- 
tiously recognize  the  communism  of  the  land,  and  that  it  is 
right  for  every  one  of  them  to  plough  and  to  mow  wherever 
he  likes. 

For  cultivation,  for  gardening,  for  building  houses,  the 
colonists  obtain  various  implements  of  labor :  nor  does  it 
enter  the  mind  of  any  one  of  them,  that  these  instruments 
of  labor  may  bring  profit  in  themselves,  and  the  capital  does 
not  assert  any  rights  of  its  own  ;  but,  on  the  contrary,  the 
colonists  conscientiously  recognize  that  all  interest  for  tools, 
or  borrowed  corn  or  capital,  is  unjust. 

They  work  upon  a  free  land,  labor  with  their  own  tools,  or 
with  those  borrowed  without  interest,  each  for  himself,  or  all 
tcjgether,  for  common  business  ;  and  in  such  a  communit}",  it 
is  impossible  to  prove  either  the  existence  of  rent  or  interest 
accruing  from  capital,  or  remuneration  for  labor. 

Speaking  of  such  a  community,  I  am  not  indulging  my 
fancy,  but  am  describing  what  has  always  taken  place,  not 
only  among  primitive  Russian  colonists,  but  among  so-called 
intellectual  men,  who  are  not  few,  and  who  have  settled  in 
Russia  and  in  America. 

I  am  describing  what  appears  to  every  one  to  be  natural 
and  leasonable.  Men  settle  on  land,  and  each  luidertakes  to 
do  such  business  as  suits  him  ;  and  each,  having  earned  what 
is  uecessar}',  does  his  own  work. 

And  when  these  men  find  it  more  convenient  to  labor 
togetlicr,  they  form  a  workmen's  association  ;  but  neither  in 
separate  households,  nor  in  associations,  will  there  appear 
separate  agents  of  production,  till  men  artificially  and 
forcibly  divide  them.  But  there  will  be  labor,  and  the  ne- 
cessary conditions  of  labor, — the  sun  which  warms  all,  the 
air  which  men  breathe,  water  which  they  drink,  .land  on 
which  they  labor,  clothes  on  the  body,  food  in  the  stomach, 
stakes,  shovels,  ploughs,  machines,  with  which  men  work  ; 
and  it  is  evident  that  neither  the  rays  of  the  sun,  nor  the 


74  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

clothes  on  the  body,  nor  the  stakes  with  which  the  man 
labors,  nor  the  spade,  nor  the  plough,  nor  the  machine  with 
which  he  works  in  the  workmen's  association,  can  belong  to 
any  one  else  but  to  those  who  enjoy  the  rays  of  the  sun, 
breathe  the  air,  drink  the  water,  eat  the  bread,  clothe  their 
bodies,  and  labor  with  the  spade  or  with  the  machine,  because 
all  this  is  necessary  onl}'  for  those  who  make  use  of  it.  And 
when  men  act  thus,  we  see  that  they  act  reasonably. 

Therefore,  observing  the  economical  conditions  which  are 
created  among  men,  1  do  not  see  that  the  division  into  three 
is  natural.  1  see,  on  the  contrary,  that  it  is  neither  natural 
nor  reasonable.  But  perhaps  the  setting  apart  of  these  three 
does  not  take  place  in  pi imitive  societies  of  men;  but  that 
when  the  population  inci^eases,  and  cultivation  begins  to 
develop,  it  is  unavoidable,  and  we  cannot  but  recognize  the 
fact  that  this  division  has  taken  place  in  European  society. 
Let  us  see  whether  it  is  really  so. 

We  are  told  that  in  European  society  this  division  of  agen- 
cies has  taken  place  ;  that  is,  that  one  man  possesses  land, 
anothe^'  possesses  instruments  of  labor,  and  the  third  are 
without  land  and  instruments.  We  have  grown  so  accus- 
tomed to  this  assertion  that  we  are  no  longer  struck  by  the 
strangeness  of  it. 

If  we  will  but  reflect  upon  this  expression,  we  cannot  help 
seeing,  not  only  the  injustice,  but  even  the  absurdity,  of  it. 
Under  tlie  idea  of  a  laboring  man  are  included  the  land  upon 
which  he  lives,  and  the  tools  with  Avhich  he  works.  If  he 
were  not  living  on  the  land,  and  had  no  tools,  he  would  not 
be  a  laboring  man.  There  has  never  been,  and  can  never  be, 
such  a  man  without  laud  and  without  tools,  without  scythe, 
cart,  and  horse ;  there  cannot  be  a  bootmaker  without  a 
house  for  his  work  standing  upon  ground,  witliout  water,  air, 
and  tools  with  which  he  works. 

If  a  laborer  has  no  land,  horse,  or  scythe,  and  a  boot- 
maker is  witliout  a  house,  water,  or  awl,  then  it  means  that 
some  oiie  has  driven  him  from  the  ground,  or  taken  it  away 
from  hiin,  or  cheated  him  out  of  his  scythe,  cart,  horse,  or 
awl ;  but  it  does  not  at  all  mean  that  there  can  be  a  country 
laborer  without  a  scj'the,  or  a  bootmaker  without  tools. 

So  you  cannot  imaoine  a  fisherman  remaining  on  dry  land 
without  fishing  implements,  unless  he  has  been  driven  away 
from  the  water  by  some  one  who  has  taken  away  from  him 
his  necessaiy  imiileinents  for  fishing  ;  so  also  we  cannot  pic- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN?  75 

ture  to  ourselves  a  workman  without  the  ground  upon  which 
he  lives,  and  without  tools  for  his  trade,  unless  somebody 
has  driven  him  from  the  former,  or  robbed  him  of  the  latter. 

There  may  be  such  men,  hunted  from  one  place  to  another, 
and  such  who,  having  been  robbed,  are  compelled  perforce 
to  work  for  another  man,  and  do  things  unnecessary  lor 
themselves  ;  but  this  does  not  mean  that  such  is  the  nature  of 
production,  and  therefore  the  land  and  the  tools  cannot  be 
considered  as  separate  agents  in  the  work. 

But  if  we  are  to  consider  as  the  agents  of  pi'oduction  all 
that  is  claimed  b}'  other  people,  and  what  a  workingman 
ma}'  be  deprived  of  by  the  violence  of  others,  wh}'  not  count 
among  tliem  the  claim  upon  the  person  of  a  slave?  Why  not 
count  claims  on  the  rain  and  the  газ-s  of  the  sun  ?  We  might 
meet  with  a  man  who  would  build  a  wall  and  thus  keep  the 
sun  from  his  neighbor ;  another  may  come  who  will  turn  the 
coui'se  of  a  river  into  his  own  pond,  and  by  that  means  con- 
taminate its  water  ;  or  an  individual  wlio  would  claim  a  fellow- 
man  as  his  own  propert}' ;  but  none  of  these  claims,  al- 
though they  may  be  enforced  by  violence,  can  be  recognized 
as  a  foundation  for  calculating  the  agents  of  production  ;  and 
therefore  it  is  as  equally  unjust  to  consider  the  exclusive  en- 
joyment of  the  rays  of  the  sun,  or  of  the  air  or  water,  or  the 
persous  of  others,  as  separate  agents  in  production. 

There  ma}'  be  men  who  will  assert  their  rights  to  the  land 
and  to  the  tools  of  a  workingman,  as  there  were  men  who 
asserted  their  rights  to  the  persons  of  others,  and  as  there 
may  be  men  who  would  assert  their  rights  to  the  exclusive 
use  of  the  rays  of  the  sun,  or  to  the  use  of  water  and  aii- ; 
there  may  be  men  who  would  drive  away  a  workingman 
from  place  to  place,  taking  from  him  by  foi'ce  the  products 
of  his  labor  as  they  are  produced,  and  the  ver}'  iustruments 
for  its  production,  who  might  compel  him  to  work,  not  for 
himself,  but  for  his  mnster.  as  occurs  in  the  factories;  —  all 
this  is  possible  :  but  a  workingman  without  land  and  tools  is 
still  an  imj)ossibility,  just  ns  there  does  not  exist  a  man  who 
would  willingly  become  the  property  of  another,  notwith- 
standing that  men  have  asserted  their  right  to  him  for  many 
generations. 

Just  as  a  6laim  on  the  person  of  another  man  couid  not 
deprive  a  slave  of  his  innate  right  to  seek  his  own  welfare, 
and  not  that  of  his  master  ;  so,  too,  the  claim  for  the  ex- 
clusive  possession  of   the  land  and  tools  of  others  cannot 


76  WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN? 

deprive  the  workingman  of  his  riglit,  like  that  of  every  man, 
to  live  upon  the  land,  and  to  woi-k  with  iiis  own  tools,  or 
those  of  his  comuuiuit}^,  as  he  consideis  most  useful  for 
himself. 

All  that  science  can  say  in  examining  the  present  econom- 
ical question,  is  this:  that  in  Eui'ope  there  exist  claims  of 
some  men  to  the  land  and  the  tools  of  workingmen,  in  con- 
sequence of  which,  for  some  of  these  wori\ingmen  (but  liy 
no  means  for  all  of  them),  the  proper  conditions  of  produc- 
tion are  violated,  so  that  the}'  are  dei)rived  of  land  and 
implements  of  labor,  and  are  compelled  to  work  with  the 
tools  of  others  ;  but  by  no  means  is  it  established  that  this 
casual  violation  of  the  lasv  of  production  is  that  very  law 
itself. 

In  saying  that  this  isolation  of  the  agents  of  produce  is 
the  fundamental  law  of  production,  the  economist  is  doing 
the  very  thing  a  zoologist  would  do,  who,  upon  seeing  a  great 
many  siskins,  with  their  wings  cut,  and  kept  in  little  cages, 
drawing  water-barrels  out  of  an  imaginary  well,  would  assevt 
this  was  the  most  essential  condition  for  the  life  of  birds, 
and  that  their  life  is  composed  of  these  conditions. 

However  many  siskins  there  may  be  kept  in  pasteboard 
houses  with  their  wings  cut,  a  zoologist  cannot  acknowledge 
these  houses  to  be  the  natural  home  of  the  birds.  However 
great  the  number  of  working-people  there  ma}^  be  driven  from 
place  to  place,  and  deprived  of  their  productions  as  well  as 
the  tools  for  their  labor,  the  natural  right  of  man  to  live 
upon  the  land,  and  to  work  with  his  own  tools,  is  that  which 
he  needs,  and  it  will  remain  so  forever. 

We  have  some  who  lay  claim  to  the  land  and  to  the  tools 
of  workingmen,  just  as  there  existed  in  former  ages  the 
claim  of  some  men  over  the  persons  of  others  ;  but  there  may 
be  no  real  division  of  men  into  lords  and  slaves  as  was  an- 
ciently established,  nor  can  there  exist  any  division  in  the 
agents  of  production,  in  land  and  capital,  as  economists  want 
to  establish  at  present. 

These  very  unlawful  claims  of  some  men  over  the  liberty 
of  others,  science  calls  the  natural  condition  of  production. 
Instead  of  taking  its  fundamental  principles  from  the  natural 
properties  of  human  societies,  science  took  them  from  a  par- 
ticular case  ;  and,  desiring  to  justify  this  case,  it  recognized 
t'lf  right  of  some  men  to  the  land  by  which  other  men  earned 
th-'i!-  living,  and  to  the  tools  witli  which  other  men  worked; 


WHAT  MUST    WE  1)0    TUENf  77 

in  other  words,  it  recognized  as  a  right  that  which  had  never 
existed,  and  cannot  exist,  and  which  is  in  itself  a  couti'adic- 
tion,  because  the  chiim  of  the  land-owner  to  the  land  on 
which  he  does  not  labor,  is  in  essence  nothing  more  than  the 
right  to  use  the  land  which  he  does  not  use  ;  the  claim  on  the 
tuols  of  others  is  nothing  more  than  a  man  assuming  a  right 
to  work  with  im[)lements  with  which  he  does  not  work. 

Science,  by  isolating  the  agents  of  production,  declares 
that  the  natural  condition  of  a  workingraau  —  that  is,  of  a 
man  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word  —  is  that  unnatural  condition 
in  which  he  exists  at  present,  as  in  ancient  times,  by  the 
division  of  men  into  citizens  and  slaves,  when  it  was  asserted 
that  the  unnatural  condition  of  slavery  was  the  natural  con- 
dition of  life. 

This  ver}'  division  accepted  by  science  only  in  oixler  to 
justify  the  existing  injustice,  and  the  adjudging  this  division 
to  be  the  foundation  of  all  its  inquiries,  has  for  its  result 
that  science  vainly  tries  to  give  some  explanation  of  existing 
phenomena  ;  and  denying  the  clearest  and  plainest  answers 
to  the  questions  that  arise,  gives  answers  which  have  no 
meaning  in  them  at  all. 

The  question  of  economical  science  is  this  :  What  is  the 
reason  of  the  fact  that  stnne  men  by  means  of  money  acquire 
an  imaginary  right  to  the  land  and  capitaU  and  may  make 
slaves  of  those  men  who  have  no  money?  The  answer  which 
presents  itself  to  common  sense  would  l)e,  that  it  is  the  result 
of  money,  the  nature  of  Avhicli  is  to  enslave  men. 

But  science  denies  this,  and  says.  This  ai'ises,  not  from 
the  nature  of  money,  but  from  the  fact  that  some  men  have 
land  and  capital,  and  others  have  neither.  We  ask  why  per- 
sons who  possess  land  and  cai)ital  op[)ress  such  as  possess 
neither?  and  we  are  answered.  Because  they  do  possess  land 
and  capital. 

But  this  is  just  what  we  are  inquiring  about.  Is  not 
deprivation  of  land  and  tools  enforced  slavery?  •  Life  ceases 
not  to  put  this  essential  question  :  and  even  science  herself 
notices  it.  and  tries  to  answer  it,  but  does  not  succeed  in 
doing  so  ;  proceeding  from  her  ow4i  fundamental  principles, 
she  only  turns  herself  round,  as  in  a  magic  circle. 

In  order  to  give  itself  a  satisfactory  answer  to  the  above 
question,  science  lias  (irst  of  all  to  deny  that  wrong  division 
of  the  agents  of  i)rodiietion.  to  cease  to  acknowledge  the 
result  of  the  phenomena  as  being  the  cause  of  them  ;  and  she 


78  WUAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

has  to  seek,  first,  the  more  obvious,  and  then  the  remoter, 
causes  of  those  phenomena  wliieh  make  up  the  whole. 

Science  must  answer  the  question,  What  is  tlie  reason 
that  some  men  are  deprived  of  hind  and  tools  while  others 
possess  both?  or,  Why  is  it  that  land  and  tools  are  taken 
away  from  persons  who  labor  upon  the  land,  and  work  with 
the  tools? 

As  soon  as  science  puts  this  question  to  herself,  she  will 
at  once  get  new  ideas  which  will  transform  all  the  previous 
ideas  of  that  sham  science,  which  has  been  moving  in  an 
unalterable  circle  of  propositions,  as,  for  instance,  the  mis- 
erable condition  of  working-peoi>le  proceeding  from  the  fact 
that  it  is  miserable.  P'or  simple-minded  persons,  it  must 
seem  unquestionable  that  the  obvious  reason  of  the  oppres- 
sion of  some  men  by  others  is  this  money.  But  science, 
denying  this,  says  that  money  is  only  a  medium  of  exchange, 
which  has  nothing  in  common  with  oppression  or  slavery. 

Let  us  see  whether  it  is  so  or  not. 


XVIII. 

Whence  comes  money?  How  is  it  that  a  nation  always 
has  money,  and  under  what  circumstances  is  it  that  a  nation 
need  not  use  money?  There  is  a  small  tribe  in  Africa,  and 
one  in  Australia,  who  live  as  lived  the  Sknepies  and  the 
Drevlyans  iu  olden  times. 

These  tribes  lived  and  ploughed,  bred  cattle,  and  culti- 
vated gardens.  ЛУе  became  acquainted  with  them  only  at 
the  dawn  of  history.  And  history  begins  with  recording  the 
fact  that  some  invaders  appear  on  the  stage.  And  invaders 
always  do  the  same  thing  :  they  take  away  from  the  abori- 
gines every  thing  they  can  take,  —  cattle,  corn,  and  stuffs; 
even  make  prisoners,  male  and  female,  and  carry  them  awaj'. 

After  some  years  the  invaders  appear  again  ;  but  the  peo- 
ple have  not  got  over  the  consequences  of  their  misfortune, 
and  there  is  scarcely  any  thing  to  take  from  them,  so  the 
invaders  invent  another  and  better  m.eans  of  making  use  of 
their  victims. 

These  means  are  very  simple,  and  naturally  present  them- 
selves to  the  mind  of  every  man.  The  first  is  personal 
slavery.  There  is  a  drawback  to  this,  seeing  the  enforcers  of 
it  have  to  put  every  thing  into  working  order,  and  feed  all  the 


WHAT   MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  79 

slaves  :  hence,  naturally-  there  appears  the  second.  The  peo- 
ple are  left  on  their  own  land,  wliieh  becomes  the  recognized 
property  of  the  invaders,  who  portion  it  out  among  the  lead- 
ing miUtary  men,  in  order  that  Ьл'  means  of  these  men  they 
may  utilize  the  labor  of  the  people. 

But  this,  too,  has  its  drawback.  It  is  not  convenient  to 
tliese  otilcers  to  have  an  oversight  over  all  the  productions  of 
the  conquered  people,  and  thus  the  third  means  is  introduced, 
Avliich  is  as  primitive  as  the  two  former  ones  ;  and  this  is  the 
levying  of  a  certain  obligatory  tax  which  the  conquered  have 
to  pay  at  stated  periods. 

The  object  of  a  conquest  is  to  take  from  the  conquered  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  products  of  their  labor.  It  is 
evident,  that,  in  order  to  do  this,  the  conipierors  must  take 
such  articles  as  are  the  most  valuable  to  the  conquered,  and 
which  at  the  same  time  are  not  cumbersome,  and  are  con- 
venient for  keeping.  —  skins  of  animals  and  gold. 

And  the  conqueror  lays  upon  the  family  or  the  tribe  a  tax 
in  these  skins  or  gold,  wliich  is  to  be  paid  at  fixed  times  ;  and 
by  means  of  this  tribute,  he  utilizes  the  labor  of  the  con- 
quered peoi)le  in  the  most  convenient  way. 

Almost  all  the  skins  and  all  the  gold  are  taken  aw^ay  from 
their  oi-iginal  i)ossessors,  and  therefore  these  are  compelled 
to  sail  all  they  have  amongst  themselves  to  obtain  gold  and 
skins  for  their  masters  ;  that  is,  they  have  to  sell  their  prop- 
erty and  their  labor. 

This  very  thing  happened  in  ancient  times,  in  the  INIiddle 
Ages,  and  occurs  now  too.  In  the  ancient  world,  when  the 
subjugation  of  one  people  by  another  was  frequent,  and 
owing  to  the  equality  of  men  not  being  acknowledged,  per- 
sonal slavery  was  the  most  widely  si)read  means  for  compel- 
ling the  service  of  others,  and  was  the  centre  of  gravity  in 
this  compidsion.  In  the  Middle  Ages,  feudalism  —  land- 
ownership  and  the  servitude  connected  with  it — partly  takes 
the  place  of  personal  slavery,  and  the  centre  of  compulsion  is 
transferred  from  persons  to  land :  in  modern  times,  since 
the  discovery  of  America,  the  development  of  commerce, 
and  the  influx  of  gold,  which  is  accepted  as  a  universal 
medium  of  exchange,  the  triliute  in  money  with  the  increase 
of  the  state  power  becomes  the  chief  instrument  for  enslav- 
ing men,  and  upon  it  are  now  built  all  economical  relation- 
shi[)s. 

In  ^'^  The  Literary  Miscellany  "  is  printed  an  article  by  Pro- 


80  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

fessor  Yan joul,  in  which  he  describes  the  recent  history  of  the 
Fiji  Islands.  If  I  were  tr^'ing  to  find  t!ie  most  pointed  illus- 
tration of  how  in  our  time  the  forcible  I'eqnirement  of  money 
became  the  chief  instrument  of  the  enslaving  of  some  men 
by  others,  I  could  not  imagine  any  thing  more  striking  and 
convincing  than  this  trustworthy  hi&tory,  —  histoi-y  based 
upon  documents  of  facts,  which  are  of  recent  occurrence." 

In  tl>e  South-Sea  Islands  in  Polynesia  lives  a  race  cidL-d 
Fiji.  The  group  on  which  they  live,  says  Professor 
Yanjoul,  is  composed  of  small  isles,  which  all  together 
occupy  a  space  of  al>out  forty  thousand  square  miles.  Only 
half  of  these  islands  are  inhabited  by  one  hundred  and  lifty 
thousand  naiives,  and  fifteen  hundred  white  men.  The 
natives  had  been  reclaimed  from  a  savage  state  a  long 
time  ago,  and  are  distinguished  among  otlier  natives  of 
Pol3'nesia  by  their  intellectual  capacities  ;  and  they  appear 
to  be  a  nation  capal»le  of  labor  and  development,  which  they 
have  also  proved  by  the  fact  that  in  a  short  period  of  time 
they  became  good  workmen  and  breeders  of  cattle. 

The  inhaltitants  were  well-to-do,  but  in  the  year  1850 
the  condition  of  this  new  state  became  desperate  :  the  na- 
tives of  Fiji,  and  their  representative.  Ivoka!),  were  m  need 
of  money.  The  money,  fovty-tive  thousand  dollars,  was 
wanted  b\'  the  Government  of  Fiji  for  ihe  payment  of  a  con- 
tribution or  indemnilication,  which  was  demanded  of  them 
b}'  the  United  States  of  America  for  violence  done  b}"  Fijis 
to  some  citizens  of  tlie  American  Repnl)lic. 

For  this  purpose  the  Americans  sent  a  squadron,  which 
unexpectedh'  took  possession  of  some  of  the  best  islands, 
under  the  pretext  that  they  would  hold  them  as  a  guaranty-, 
and  threatened  to  bombard  and  ruin  the  towns  if  the  indem- 
nification were  not  paid  over,  upon  a  certain  date,  to  the 
ie[)resentatives  of  America. 

The  Americans  were  among  the  first  colonists  who.  to- 
gether with  missionaries,  came  to  the  Fiji  Islands.  They 
chose  and  (under  one  pretext  or  another)  took  possession 
of  the  best  pieces  of  land  on  the  islands,  and  establislied 
there  cotton  and  coffee  plantations.  They  hired  wiiole 
crowds  of  natives,  binding  them  by  contracts  unknown  to 
this  half-'civilized  race  ;  or  acted  through  special  contractors 
or  purveyors  of  human  merchandise. 

^lisundeistandings  between  such  master-planters  an<l  t'le 
natives,  whom  they  considered  almost  as  slaves,  were  uu- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN?  81 

avoidable  :  it  was  some  of  these  quarrels  which  served  as  a 
pretext  for  the  American  iiidemniticatioii. 

Notwitlistaiiding  their  prosperit}'  the  Fijis  had  preserved 
almost  up  to  the  present  time  the  forms  of  so-called  natural 
economy,  whicli  existed  in  Europe  during  the  Middle  Ages  : 
money  was  scarcely'  in  circulation  among  tlie  natives,  and 
their  trade  had  almost  exclusively  the  character  of  barter  ; 
—  one  merchandise  was  exchanged  for  another,  and  a  few 
social  taxes  and  those  of  the  state  were  taken  out  in  produc- 
tions. What  were  the  Fiji-Islanders  with  their  King  Kokab 
to  do  when  tlie  Americans  required  from  them  fortj'-five 
thousand  dollars  under  the  most  terrible  threat  in  the  event 
of  non-payment?  To  tlie  Fijis  the  very  figures  appeared  to 
be  something  inconceivable,  to  say  notliing  of  the  money 
itself,  which  they  had  never  seen  in  such  large  quantities. 
After  deliberating  with  other  chiefs,  Kokab  made  up  his 
mind  to  apply  to  the  Queen  of  England,  at  first  asking  her 
to  take  the  islands  under  her  protection,  and  then  plainly 
under  her  rule. 

But  the  English  regarded  this  request  circumspectly,  and 
were  in  no  hurry  to  assist  the  half-savage  monarch  out  of  his 
difficulty.  Instead  of  giving  a  direct  answer,  they  sent,  in 
1<S(5(),  si)ecial  commissioners  to  make  inquiries  about  the  Fiji- 
Islanders,  in  order  to  be  able  to  deci  le  whether  it  was  worth 
Avhile  to  annex  them  to  the  British  Possessions,  and  to  lay 
out  money  to  satisfy  the  American  claims. 

^Meanwhile  the  American  Government  continued  to  insist 
u[)on  [)ayment,' and  held  as  a  pledge  in  their  de  fado  domiii- 
ion  some  of  the  best  parts,  and,  having  looked  closely  into 
the  national  wealth,  raised  their  former  claim  to  ninety  thou- 
sand dollars,  and  threatened  to  increase  it  still  if  Kokab  did 
not  pay  at  once. 

B;'ing  thus  jHished  on  every  side,  the  poor  king,  unac- 
quainted with  European  means  of  credit  accommodation,  in 
accordance  with  the  advice  of  European  colonists,  began  to 
try  to  raise  money  in  Melbourne,  among  the  merchants,  cost 
what  it  might,  if  even  he  should  be  obliged  to  yield  up  all  his 
kingdom  into  private  hands. 

And  so  in  Melbourne,  in  consequence  of  his  application,  a 
commercial  society  was  formed.  This  joint-stock  company, 
which  took  the  name  of  the  Polynesian  Company,  formed 
with  the  chiefs  of  the  Fiji-Islanders  a  treaty  upon  terms  the 
most  advantageous  to  itself.     It  took  upon  itself  the  debt  to 


82  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN? 

the  American  Government,  and  pledged  itself  to  pay  it  by 
several  instalments  ;  for  this  the  company  received,  accord- 
ing to  the  first  treaty,  one,  and  then  two  liundred  thousand 
acres  of  the  best  land,  selected  by  themselves  ;  the  perpetual 
Immunity  from  all  taxes  and  dues  for  all  its  factories,  opera- 
tions, and  colonies,  and  the  exclusive  riglit  for  a  long  period 
to  estaljlish  in  the  Fiji  Islands  issuing-banks,  with  the  privi- 
lege of  printing  uulimited  number  of  notes. 

Since  this  treaty,  definitively  concluded  in  the  year  18G8, 
there  appeared  in  the  Fiji  Islands,  along  with  their  local 
government  with  Kokab  at  the  head,  another  powerful 
authority,  — a  commercial  factory,  with  large  estates  over  all 
the  islands,  exercising  a  decided  influence  upon  the  govern- 
ment. 

Up  to  this  time  the  wants  of  the  government  of  Kokab  had 
been  satisfied  with  the  payment  in  natural  productions,  which 
consisted  of  various  duties  and  a  small  custom  tax  on  goods 
imported.  With  the  couclusion  of  the  treaty,  and  the  form- 
ing of  the  influential  Pol^'nesian  Compan}',  the  king's  financial 
circumstances  had  changed. 

A  considerable  part  of  the  best  land  in  his  dominion  had 
passed  into  the  hands  of  the  company',  his  income  from  the 
land  therefore  diminished  ;  on  the  other  hand,  the  income 
from  the  custom  taxes  also  diminished,  because  the  company 
obtained  for  itself  an  import  and  export  of  all  kinds  of  goods 
free  of  custom  duties. 

The  natives  —  ninety-nine  per  cent  of  all  the  population 
—  had  always  been  bad  payers  of  custom  duties,  because 
they  scarcely  bought  any  of  the  European  productions,  ex- 
cept some  stuffs  and  hardware  ;  and  now,  from  the  freeing 
from  custom  duties,  along  with  the  Polynesian  Company,  of 
man}'  well-to-do  Europeans,  tiie  income  of  King  Kokab  was 
reduced  to  ?н7,  and  he  was  obliged  to  take  steps  to  resusci- 
tate it  if  possil;le. 

He  began  to  consult  his  white  friends  as  to  how  he  was  to 
avert  the  calamity,  and  they  advised  him  to  create  the  first 
direct  tax  in  the  country  ;  and,  in  order,  I  suppose,  to  have 
less  trouble  about  it,  in  money.  The  tax  was  established  in 
the  form  of  a  general  poll-tax,  amounting  to  one  pound  for 
every  man,  and  to  four  shillings  for  every  woman,  throughout 
the  islands. 

As  we  have  already  said,  on  the  Fiji  Islands  there  still  ex- 
ist a  natural  economy  and  a  trade   by   barter.     Very  few 


WHAT  3IUST    WE  DO    ТПЕХ?  83 

natives  possess  гаопез\  Their  wealth  consists  chiefly  of 
Viirious  raw  productions  and  cattle  ;  Avliilst  the  new  tax  re- 
quired the  possession  in  a  famil}'  of  considerable  sums  of 
mone}'  at  fixed  times. 

Up  to  that  date  a  native  had  not  been  accustomed  to 
an}'  individual  burden  in  the  interests  of  his  government, 
except  personal  obligations  ;  all  the  taxes  which  had  to  be 
paid,  were  paid  by  the  community  or  village  to  which  he  be- 
longed, and  from  the  common  fields  from  which  he  received 
his  principal  income. 

One  alternative  was  left  to  him,  —  to  try  to  raise  money 
from  the  European  colonists ;  that  is,  to  address  himself 
either  to  the  merchant  or  to  the  planter. 

To  the  first  he  Avas  obliged  to  sell  his  productions  on  the 
merchant's  own  terms,  because  the  tax-collector  required 
money  at  a  certain  fixed  date,  or  he  had  even  to  raise  money 
by  selling  his  expected  production,  лvhich  enabled  the  mer- 
chant to  take  iniquitous  interest.  Or  he  had  to  address  him- 
self to  the  planter,  and  sell  him  his  labor ;  that  is,  to  become 
his  workman  :  but  the  wages  on  the  Fiji  Islands  were  very 
low,  owing,  I  suppose,  to  the  exceptionall}'  great  offer  of 
services. 

The}'  did  not  exceed  one  shilling  per  week  for  a  grown-up 
man,  or  two  pounds  twelve  shillings  a  year ;  and  therefore, 
in  order  merely  to  get  the  money  necessary  for  the  payment 
for  himself,  not  to  speak  of  his  family,  a  Fiji  had  to  leave 
his  house,  his  family,  and  his  own  land,  and  often  go  far 
away  to  another  island,  and  there  enslave  himself  to  the 
planter  for  at  least  half  a  year  in  order  to  get  the  one  pound 
necessary  for  the  payment  of  the  new  tax  ;  and  as  for  tlie 
payment  of  taxes  for  his  whole  family,  he  had  to  look  for  it 
to  some  other  means. 

We  can  understand  what  was  the  result  of  such  a  state. 
From  a  lumdred  and  fifty  thousand  of  his  subjects,  Kokab 
collected  in  all,  six  thousand  pounds  ;  and  now  there  began 
a  forcible  extortion  of  taxes  unknown  till  then,  and  a  series 
of  AMolent  measures. 

The  local  administration,  which  had  been  formerly  incor- 
ruptible, soon  made  common  cause  with  the  European 
planters,  who  began  to  have  their  own  way  with  the  country. 
For  non-payment,  th :  Fijis  were  summoned  to  the  court  and 
were  sentenced,  not  only  to  pay  the  expenses,  hut  also  to  be 
sent  to  prison  for  n<_t,  less  than  half  a  year.     This  prison 


84  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    TUENf 

was  really  the  plantations  of  the  first  white  man  who  chose 
to  pay  the  tax-money  and  the  legal  expenses  of  the  con- 
demned. 

Thus  the  white  settlers  received  cheap  labor  to  any  amount. 
First  this  compulsory  labor  was  fixed  at  not  longer  than  half 
a  year;  but  afterwards  the  bribed  judges  found  it  possible  to 
pass  sentence  for  eigliteeu  months,  and  then  to  renew  the 
sentence. 

Very  quickly,  in  the  course  of  a  few  3'ears,  the  picture  of 
the  social  condition  of  the  inhabitants  of  Fiji  was  quite 
changed. 

AVhole  districts,  formerly  flourishing,  lost  half  of  their 
population,  and  were  greatly  impoverished.  All  the  male 
population,  except  the  old  and  infirm,  was  working  away 
from  their  homes  for  European  planters,  in  order  to  get 
mone}^  necessary  for  the  payment  of  taxes,  or  in  consequence 
of  the  law  court.  The  women  on  the  Fiji  Islands  had  scarcely 
ever  worked  in  the  fields  ;  therefore,  in  the  absence  of  the 
men,  all  farming  was  neglected,  and  went  to  ruin.  In  the 
course  of  a  few  j^ears,  half  of  the  population  of  Fiji  was 
transformed  into  the  slaves  of  the  colonists. 

In  order  to  ease  their  situation,  the  Fiji-Islanders  again 
appealed  to  England.  A  new  petition  was  got  up,  sub- 
scribed by  a  great  many  eminent  persons  and  chiefs,  praying 
to  be  annexed  to  England  ;  and  this  was  handed  to  the  British 
consul.  Meanwhile,  England,  thanks  to  her  learned  expedi- 
tion, had  time  not  onU-  to  investigate  the  affairs  of  the  islands, 
but  even  to  survey  them,  and  duly  to  appreciate  the  natural 
riches  of  this  fine  corner  of  the  globe. 

Owing  to  all  these  circumstances,  the  negotiations  this 
time  were  crowned  with  full  success;  and  in  1874,  to  the 
great  dissatisfaction  of  the  American  planters,  England 
offlcialh'  took  possession  of  the  Fiji  Islands,  and  added  them 
to  its  colonies.  Kokab  died,  and  his  heirs  had  a  small 
pension  assigned  to  them. 

The  administi'ation  of  the  islands  was  intrusted  to  Sir 
Hercules  Robinson,  the  governor  of  New  South  AVales.  In 
the  first  year  of  its  annexation  to  England,  the  Fiji-Islanders 
had  not  had  any  self-government,  but  were  under  the  direc- 
tion of  Sir  Hercules  Robinson,  who  had  appointed  an  admin- 
istrator for  them.  Taking  the  islands  into  their  hands,  the 
English  Government  had  to  undertake  the  ditEcult  task  of 
gratifying  various  cxi)ectations  raised  by  them. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  85 

The  natiA^es,  of  course,  first  of  all  expected  the  abolition 
of  the  luited  poll-tax  ;  one  part  of  the  white  colonists  (the 
Americans)  looked  with  suspicion  upon  the  British  rule  ;  and 
another  part  (those  of  English  origin)  expected  all  kinds  of 
conth'mations  of  tlieir  [)Ower  over  the  natives,  —  permission  to 
enclose  the  land,  and  so  on.  The  P^nglish  Government,  how- 
ever, proved  itself  equal  to  the  task  ;  and  its  first  act  was 
to  aliolish  forever  the  poll-tax,  which  had  created  the  slavery 
of  the  natives  in  the  interest  of  a  few  colonists.  But  here, 
JSir  Hercules  Kobinson  had  at  once  to  face  a  difficult  dilemma. 

It  was  necessary  to  abolish  the  poll-tax,  which  had  made 
the  Fijis  seek  help  of  the  English  Government;  but,  at  the 
same  time,  according  to  Pлlg•lish  colonial  роИсз%  the  colonies 
had  to  support  themselves  ;  the}'  had  to  find  their  own  means 
for  covering  the  expenses  of  the  government.  With  the 
abolition  of  the  poll-tax,  all  the  incomes  of  the  Fijis  (from 
custom  duties)  did  not  amount  to  more  than  six  thousand 
pounds,  while  the  government  expenses  required  at  least 
seventy  thousand  a  year. 

And  now  Sir  Hercules  Robinson,  having  abolished  the 
money  tax,  thought  of  a  labor  tax  ;  but  it  did  not  yield  the 
sum  necessary  for  feeding  him  and  his  assistants.  Matters  did 
not  mend  until  a  new  governor  had  been  apjiointed,  —  Gordon, 
—  who,  in  order  to  get  out  of  the  inhabitants  the  money 
necessary  for  keeping  him  and  his  functionaries,  resolved 
not  to  demand  money  until  it  had  come  sufficiently  into 
general  circulation  on  the  islands,  but  to  take  from  the 
natives  their  productions,  and  to  sell  them  himself. 

This  tragical  episode  in  the  lives  of  the  Fijis  is  the  clearest 
and  best  proof  of  what  is  the  true  meaning  of  money  in  our 
time. 

In  this  case  every  thing  is  illustrated,  the  first  funda- 
mental condition  of  slavery. — the  gun,  threats,  murders, 
and  plunder,  and  lastly,  money,  the  means  of  subjugation, 
whieh  has  taken  the  place  of  all  other.  That  which  in  an 
historical  sketch  of  economical  development  has  to  be  inves- 
tigated during  centuries,  here  when  all  the  forms  of  monetary 
violence  have  fully  developed  themselves,  had  been  concen- 
trated into  a  space  of  ten  years.  The  drama  begins  thus  : 
tiie  American  Government  sends  ships  with  loaded  guns  to 
the  shores  of  the  islands,  whose  inliabitants  they  want 
to  enslave.  The  pretext  of  this  threat  is  monetary  ;  but  the 
beginning  of  the  tragedy  is  the  levelling  of  guns  against  all  the 


86  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

inhal)itants,  —  wives,  chiblren,  old  people,  and  men,  — though 
they  have  not  committed  any  crime.  •'  Your  money  or  your 
life,"  —  forty-tive  thousand  dollars,  then  ninety  thousand  or 
slaughter.  But  ninet}'  thousand  are  not  to  be  had.  And 
now  begins  the  second  act :  it  is  necessary  to  foi-ego  a 
slaughter,  which  would  be  blood}',  terrible,  and  concentrated, 
in  a  short  period  ;  it  is  necessary'  to  substitute  a  suffering 
less  perceptible  which  can  be  laid  upon  all,  and  will  last 
longer;  and  the  natives  with  their  rei)resentative  seek  to 
substitute  for  slaughter  a  slavery  of  money.  They  borrow 
money,  and  the  planned  means  of  enslaving  men  by  money 
at  once  begins  to  operate  like  a  disciplined  army.  In  five 
years  the  thing  is  done,  —  men  have  not  only  lost  their  right 
to  utilize  their  own  land  and  tiieir  propert}',  but  also  their 
liberty, — they  have  become  slaves.  Here  begins  act  three. 
The  situation  is  too  painful ;  and  the  unfortunate  ones  are 
told  they  may  change  their  master,  and  become  slaves  of 
another :  there  is  not  a  thought  about  freedom  from  the 
slavery  brought  about  b}'  the  means  of  money.  And  tlie 
people  call  for  another  master,  to  whom  they  give  themselves 
up,  asking  him  to  improve  their  condition.  The  English 
come  and  see  that  dominion  over  these  islands  gives  them 
the  possibility  of  feeding  their  already  too  greath'  multijjlied 
parasites,  and  the  English  Government  takes  possession 
of  these  islands  and  their  iniial)itants  ;  but  it  does  not  take 
them  in  the  form  of  personal  slaves  ;  it  does  not  take  ел'еп 
the  land,  nor  distribute  it  among  its  assistants. 

These  old  ways  are  not  necessary  now :  only  one  thing  is 
necessary.  —  taxes  which  must  be  large  enough  on  the  one 
hand  to  prevent  the  workingmen  from  freeing  themselves 
from  virtual  slavery,  and  on  the  other  hand  to  feed  luxuri- 
ously a  great  number  of  parasites.  The  inhabitants  must 
раз'  seventy  thousand  pounds  sterling,  —  that  is  the  funda- 
mental condition  upon  which  Elngland  consents  to  free  the 
Fijis  from  the  American  despotism,  and  this  is  just  what  was 
wanting  for  the  final  enslaving  of  the  inhabitants.  But  it 
turned  out  that  the  Fiji-Islanders  cannot  under  any  circum- 
stances pay  these  sevent}'  thousand  pounds  in  their  present 
state.     The  claim  is  too  great. 

The  P^nglish  temporarily  modify  it,  and  take  a  part  of  it 
out  in  natural  productions  in  order  that  in  time,  when  money 
has  come  into  circulalion.  they  ma}'  receive  the  full  sum. 
They  do  not  behave  like  the  former  company,  whose  conduct 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  87 

we  maj^  liken  to  the  first  coming  of  savage  in\'aders  into  an 
uncivilized  land,  wlien  they  want  only  to  take  as  much  as 
possible  and  then  decamp  :  but  England  behaves  like  a  more 
clear-sighted  enslaver ;  she  does  not  kill  at  one  blow  the 
goose  with  the  golden  eggs,  but  feeds  her  in  order  that  she 
ma}-  continue  to  lay  them.  England  at  first  relaxes  the  reins 
for  her  own  interest  that  she  ma}-  hold  them  forever  after- 
Avards,  and  so  has  brought  the  Fiji-Islanders  into  that  state 
of  permanent  monetary  thraldom  in  Avhich  all  civilized 
European  people  now  are,  and  from  which  their  chance  of 
escape  is  not  apparent. 

This  phenomena  repeats  itself  in  America,  in  China,  in 
Central  Asia ;  and  it  is  the  same  in  the  history  of  the  con- 
quest of  all  nations. 

Money  is  an  inoffensive  means  of  exchange  when  it  is  not 
collected  with  violence,  or  when  loaded  guns  are  not  directed 
from  the  seashore  against  the  defenceless  inhabitants.  As 
soon  as  it  is  taken  by  force  of  arms,  the  same  thing  must 
unavoidably  take  place  which  occurred  on  the  Fiji  Islands, 
and  has  always  and  everywhere  repeated  itself. 

Such  men  as  consider  it  their  lawful  right  to  utilize  the 
labor  of  others,  and  who  have  the  means  of  doing  so,  will 
achieve  this  by  means  of  forcibly  demanding  such  sums  of 
money  as  will  compel  the  oppressed  to  become  the  slaves 
of  the  oppressors. 

And  moreover,  that  will  happen  which  occurred  between 
the  English  and  the  Fijis, — the  extortioners  will  always,  in 
their  demand  for  money,  rather  exceed  the  limit  to  which  the 
amount  of  the  sum  required  must  rise  in  order  that  the 
enslaving  may  take  place  more  effectuall3\  They  Avill 
respect  this  limit  only  while  they  have  moral  sense  and  sulli- 
cient  money  for  themselves :  they  will  overstep  it  when  they 
lose  their  moral  sense  or  require  funds. 

As  for  governments,  they  will  always  exceed  this  limit,  — 
first,  because  for  a  government  there  exists  no  moral  sense 
of  justice  ;  and  secondly,  because,  as  we  all  know,  every 
government  is  in  the  greatest  want  of  money,  caused  by 
wars  and  the  necessity  of  giving  gratuities  to  their  allies. 
All  governments  are  insoh^ent,  and  cannot  help  following  a 
maxim  expressed  by  a  Russian  statesman  of  the  eighteenth 
century. —that  the  peasant  must  be  sheared  of  his  wool  lest 
it  should  grow  too  long.  All  governments  are  hopelessly  in 
debt,  and  ihis  debt  on  an  average  (not  taking  iu  considera- 


88  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

tioii  its  occasional  diminution  in  England  and  America)  is 
growing  at  a  terrible  rate.  So  also  grow  tlie  budgets  ;  I  hat 
is,  the  necessity  of  struggling  witli  otlier  extortioners,  and  of 
giving  presents  to  tliose  vvlio  assist  in  extortion. 

Wages  do  not  increase,  not  because  of  the  hiw  of  I'cnt, 
but  because  taxes  collected  with  violence  exist,  in  oidjr 
to  take  away  from  men  their  superfluities,  so  that  they  may 
be  compelled  to  sell  their  labor  to  satisfy  them,  the  utilizii)g 
of  their  labor  being  the  aim  of  raising  them. 

And  their  labor  can  only  be  utilized  when  on  a  general 
average  the  taxes  required  are  more  than  the  Avorkhig-poo- 
ple  are  able  to  give  without  depriving  themselves  of  all 
means  of  subsistence.  The  rising  of  wages  would  put  an 
end  to  the  possibility  of  enslaving ;  and  therefore,  as  long 
as  violence  exists,  wages  can  never  rise.  This  simple  and 
])lain  mode  of  action  by  some  men  towards  others,  political 
economists  term  the  iron  law;  the  instrument  by  which  such 
action  is  performed,  they  call  a  medium  of  exchange  :  and 
money  is  this  inoffensive  medium  of  exchange  necessary 
for  men  in  their  transactions  with  each  otlier. 

Why  is  it,  then,  that,  whenever  there  is  no  violent  demand 
for  money  taxes,  there  has  never  been,  and  can  never  be, 
money  in  its  true  signification  ;  but,  as  among  the  Fiji- 
Islanders,  the  Phoenicians,  the  Kirghis.  and  generally  among 
men  who  do  not  pay  taxes,  as  among  the  Africans,  there  is 
either  a  direct  exchange  of  produce  or  arbitrary  standards  of 
value,  as  sheep,  hides,  skins,  and  shells? 

A  definite  kind  of  money,  whatever  it  mav  be,  will  always 
become,  not  a  means  of  exchange,  but  a  means  of  ransom- 
ing from  violence  ;  and  it  begins  to  circulate  among  men 
only  when  a  definite  standard  is  compulsorilv  required  from 
all. 

It  is  only  then  that  everj'body  equally  wants  it,  and  only 
then  it  receives  any  A'alue. 

Further,  it  is  not  the  thing  that  is  most  convenient  for 
exchange  that  receives  any  value,  but  that  which  is  re- 
quired by  the  government.  If  gold  is  demanded,  gold 
becomes  valuable :  if  knuckle-bones  were  demanded,  they, 
too,  would  become  valuable.  If  it  were  not  so,  why,  then, 
has  the  issue  of  this  means  of  excliange  always  been  the 
prerogative  of  the  government?  The  Fiji-Islanders,  for 
instance,  have  arranged  among  themselves  their  own  means 
of  exchange  ;  well,  then,  let  them  be  free  to  exchange  what 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  89 

and  how  they  like,  and  you,  men  possessing  power,  or  the 
means  of  violence,  do  not  interfei'e  witli  this  exchange. 
But  instead  3'ou  coin  money,  not  allowing  an}-  one  else  to 
do  so  ;  or,  as  is  the  case  with  us.  you  merely  print  some 
notes,  engraving  upon  them  tlie  heads  of  the  tsars,  sign 
them  with  a  particular  signature,  and  threaten  to  punish 
every  falsification  of  them,  distribute  this  money  to  3'our 
assistants,  and  require  everylx^d}^  to  give  yon  such  money 
or  such  notes  лvith  such  signatures,  and  so  many  of  them 
that  a  \vorkingman  must  give  алуау  all  his  lalior  in  order 
to  get  these  ver}'  notes  or  coins ;  and  then  3'ou  want  to 
convince  us  that  this  money  is  necessary  for  us  as  a  means 
of  exchange. 

All  men  are  free,  and  none  of  them  oppresses  the  others 
by  keeping  them  in  slavery ;  but  there  exist  only  money 
in  society  and  an  iron  law,  in  consequence  of  which  rent 
increases,  and  wages  diminish  down  to  a  minimum.  Tiiat 
lialf  (nay,  more  than  half)  of  the  Russian  peasants,  in  order 
t(^  pay  direct  and  indirect  taxes  and  land  taxes,  enslave  theu^- 
selves  to  labor  for  the  land-owners,  or  for  manufacturers,  does 
not  at  all  signify  (which  is  obvious)  ;  for  the  violent  collec- 
tion of  poU-taxc'S  and  indirect  and  land  taxes  which  are  paid 
in  money  to  the  government  and  to  its  assistants,  —  the  land- 
owners,—  compels  the  workingaian  to  be  in  slavery  to 
those  who  collect  money ;  l)ut  it  means  that  this  money, 
as  a  means  of  exchange,  and  an  iron  law,  exist. 

Before  the  serfs  were  free,  I  could  compel  Ivun  to  do 
апз'  work ;  and  if  he  refused  to  do  it,  I  could  send  him 
to  the  police-sergeant,  and  the  latter  would  give  him  the  rod 
till  he  submittecl.  And  if  I  compelled  Ivan  to  overwork 
himself,  and  did  not  give  him  either  land  or  food,  the  mat- 
ter would  go  up  to  the  authorities,  and  I  should  have  to 
answer  for  it. 

But  now  that  men  are  free,  I  can  compel  Ivan  and  Peter 
and  .Sidor  to  do  every  kind  of  work  ;  and  if  they  refuse  to  do 
it.  I  give  them  no  money  to  pay  taxes,  and  they  will  be 
flogged  till  they  submit :  besides  this,  I  may  also  make  a  (Ger- 
man, a  Frenchman,  a  Chinaman,  and  an  Indian,  work  for  me 
by  that  means,  so  that,  if  they  do  not  sul)mit,  I  shall  not  give 
them  money  to  hire  land,  or  to  buy  bread,  because  they  have 
neither  land  nor  bread.  And  if  I  make  them  overwork  tiiera- 
selves,  or  kill  them  with  excess  of  labor,  nobody  will  say  a 
word  to  me  about  it ;  and,  moreover,  if  I  have  read  books  oa 


90  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

political  economy,  I  shall  be  strongly  persuaded  that  all  men 
are  free,  and  that  money  does  not  create  slavery  !  Our  peas- 
ants have  long  known  that  with  a  ruble  one  can  Ijurt  more 
tlian  Avith  a  stick.  But  it  is  only  political  econonii&ts  who  do 
not  want  to  see  it. 

To  say  that  money  does  not  create  bondage,  is  to  say  that 
half  a  centurj'  ago  servitude  did  not  create  slaver}^  Toliti- 
cal  economists  say  that  mone}'^  is  an  inoffensive  medium  of 
exchange,  notwithstanding  the  fact  that,  in  cousecpience  of 
possessing  it,  one  man  ma}^  enslave  the  other.  Why,  then, 
was  it  not  said  half  a  century  ago  that  servitude  was,  in  it- 
self, an  inoffensive  medium  of  reciprocal  services,  notwith- 
standing the  fact  that  by  no  lawful  means  could  one  man 
enslave  another? 

Some  men  give  their  manual  labor;  and  the  work  of  others 
consists  in  taking  care  of  the  physical  and  intellectual  wel- 
fare of  the  slaves,  and  in  superintending  their  efforts. 

And,  I  fancy,  some  have  really  said  this. 


XIX. 

If  the  object  of  this  sham,  so-called  science  of  Political 
Economy  had  not  been  the  same  as  that  of  all  other  sciences 
of  law,  —  the  justification  of  A'iolence,  —  it  could  not  have 
avoided  noticing  the  strange  phenomenon  that  the  distril)u- 
tion  of  wealth,  and  the  depriving  of  some  men  of  land  and 
capital,  and  the  enslaving  of  some  men  by  others,  depend 
upon  mone}',  and  that  it  is  only  by  means  of  money  that 
some  men  utilize  the  labor  of  others  ;  in  other  words,  enslave 
them. 

I  repeat  it,  a  man  who  has  money,  may  buy  up  and  mo- 
nopolize all  the  corn,  and  kill  others  with  starvation,  com- 
pletely oppressing  them,  as  it  has  frequently  happened  before 
our  own  ej'cs  on  a  very  large  scale. 

It  would  seem  that  we  ouglit  to  look  out  for  the  connection 
of  these  occurrences  with  money  ;  but  science,  with  full  as- 
surance, asserts  that  money  has  no  connection  whatever  with 
the  matter  in  question. 

Science  says.  Money  is  as  much  an  article  of  merchan- 
dise as  an}' thing  else  which  has  the  value  of  its  production, 
only  лvith  this  difference,  —  that  this  article  of  merchandise  is 
chosen   as   the  more  couvenieu     medium    of    exchange  for 


WHAT  3IUSr    WE  DO    THEN?  91 

establishing  A'alues,  for  saving,  and  for  making  payments. 
One  man  has  made  boots,  another  has  grown  wheat,  the 
third  has  bred  sheep  ;  and  now,  in  order  to  exel}ange  more 
conveniently,  they  put  into  circulation  money,  which  repre- 
sents the  equivalent  of  labor ;  and  by  this  medium  they 
exchange  the  soles  of  boots  for  a  loin  of  mutton,  or  ten  pounds 
of  flour. 

Students  of  this  sham  science  are  very  fond  of  picturing  to 
themselves  such  a  state  of  affairs  ;  but  there  has  never  been 
such  a  condition  in  tlie  world.  Such  an  idea  about  society  is 
like  the  idea  al^out  the  primitive,  prehistorical,  perfect  hu- 
man state,  which  the  philosophers  cherished  ;  but  there  has 
never  existed  such  a  state. 

In  all  human  societies  where  there  has  been  money,  there 
Ills  been  also  the  violence  of  the  strong  and  the  armed  over 
the  weak  and  the  defenceless  ;  and  wherever  there  has  been 
лм(Лепее,  there  the  standard  of  value,  —  money,  —  be  it  what 
it  may,  —  either  cattle  or  hides,  or  skins  or  metals,  —  must 
have  lost  unavoidably  its  significance  as  a  meduun  of  ex- 
change, and  received  the  meaning  of  a  ransom  from  violence. 

Without  dou])t,  money  possesses  the  inoffensive  properties 
whifh  science  enumerates ;  but  these  properties  it  would 
have  onl\'  in  a  society  in  which  tliere  was  no  violence,  in  an 
ideal  state  ;  but  in  such  a  society,  mone}'  would  not  be  found 
as  a  general  measure  of  value  ;  it  has  never  existed,  and 
could  never  exist,  in  a  society  which  had  not  come  under  tlie 
general  violence  of  the  state. 

In  all  societies  known  to  us  where  there  is  money,  it  re- 
ceives the  signification  of  the  medium  of  exchange  only 
because  it  serves  as  a  means  of  violence.  And  its  chief 
object  is  to  act  thus,  and  not  as  a  mere  medium.  Where 
there  is  violence,  money  cannot  be  a  regular  medium  of 
exchange,  because  it  cannot  be  a  measure  of  value.  And  it 
cannot  be  a  measure  of  value,  because,  as  soon  as  in  a  society 
one  man  can  take  away  from  another  the  productions  of  liis 
labor,  this  measure  is  directly  violated.  If  horses  and  cows, 
l)red  by  one  man,  and  violently  taken  away  by  others,  were 
brought  to  a  market,  it  is  plain  that  the  value  of  horses  and 
cows  thei'e  would  no  longer  corresi)ond  with  the  labor  of 
breeding  them  ;  and  the  value  of  all  other  things  would  also 
change  in  accordance  with  this  change,  and  money  would  not 
determine  their  value. 

Besides,  if  one  man  may  acquire  by  force  a  cow  or  a  hoi'se 


92  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

or  a  house,  he  may  b^^  the  same  force  acquire  money  itself, 
and  with  this  шопе}'  acquire  all  kinds  of  produce.  If,  then, 
money  itself  is  acquired  by  violence,  and  spent  to  purchase 
things,  moue}"  entirely  loses  its  quality*  as  a  medium  of  ex- 
change. 

The  oppressor  who  takes  away  money,  and  gives  it  for  the 
production  of  iabur,  does  not  exchange  any  thing,  but  by 
the  means  of  labor  takes  away  all  that  he  wants. 

But  let  us  suppose  that  such  an  imaginary  and  impossil)le 
state  of  society  really  existed,  in  which,  without  a  general 
violence  of  the  state  exercised  over  men,  money  is  in  circu- 
lation, —  silver  or  gold  serving  as  a  measure  of  value  and  as 
a  medium  of  exchange.  All  the  savings  in  such  a  society 
are  expressed  by  топез\  There  appears  in  this  society  an 
oppressor  in  the  shape  of  a  conqueror.  Let  us  suppose  that 
this  oppressor  takes  away  the  cows,  horses,  clothes,  and  the 
houses  of  the  inhaljitants,  but,  as  it  is  not  convenient  for  hiui 
to  be  in  possession  of  all  this,  he  will  therefore  naturally 
think  of  taking  from  these  men  that  which  represents  among 
them  all  kinds  of  value,  and  is  exchanged  for  all  kinds  of 
things,  —  money.  And  at  once  in  this  community,  money 
will  receive  for  the  oppressor  and  his  assistants  another 
signification:  its  character  as  a  medium  of  exchange  will 
therefore  cease  in  such  a  society. 

The  measure  of  the  value  of  all  things  will  always  depend 
upon  the  pleasure  of  the  oppressor. 

The  articles  most  necessary  for  him,  and  for  which  he 
gives  more  money,  will  receive  a  greater  value,  and  vice  versa; 
so  that,  in  a  community  exposed  to  violence,  money  receives 
at  once  its  chief  meaning,  —  it  becomes  a  means  of  violence 
and  a  ransom  from  violence,  and  it  will  retain  among  the 
oppressed  people  its  signification  as  a  medium  of  exchange, 
only  so  far  as  it  is  convenient  for  the  oppressor.  Let  us 
picture  the  whole  affair  in  a  circle,  thus :  — 

The  serfs  supply  their  landlord  Avith  linen,  poultry,  sheep, 
and  dail}'  labor. 

The  landlord  substitutes  monej'  for  these  goods,  and  fixes 
the  value  of  various  articles  sent  in.  Those  who  have  no 
linen,  corn,  cattle,  or  manual  labor  to  offer,  may  bring  a 
definite  sum  of  money. 

It  is  obvious,  that,  in  the  society  of  the  peasants  of  this 
landlord,  the  price  of  various  articles  will  always  depend 
upon  the  landlord's  pleasure.     The  landlord  uses  the  articles 


WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN?  93 

collected  among  his  peasants,  and  some  of  these  articles  are 
more  necessary  for  him  than  others  :  accordingly,  he  fixes 
the  prices  for  them,  more  or  less.  It  is  clear  that  the  mere 
will  and  requirements  of  the  landlord  must  regulate  the 
prices  of  these  articles  among  the  payers.  If  he  is  in  want 
of  corn,  he  will  set  a  high  price  for  a  fixed  quantity  of  it, 
and  a  low  price  for  linen,  cattle,  or  work  ;  and  therefore  those 
who  have  no  corn  will  sell  their  labor,  linen,  and  cattle  to 
others,  in  order  to  buy  corn  to  give  it  to  tlie  landlord. 

If  the  landlord  chooses  to  substitute  mone}'  for  all  kinds 
of  claim,  then  the  value  of  things  will  again  depend,  not 
npon  the  value  of  laboi',  but  first  upon  the  sum  of  money 
which  the  landlord  will  require,  and  secondly  upon  the 
articles  produced  by  the  peasants  which  are  more  necessary 
to  the  landlord,  and  for  which  he  will  allow  a  higlier  price. 

The  money-claim  made  by  the  landlord  upon  the  peasants 
would  cease  only  to  have  any  influence  u[)on  the  prices  of  biie 
articles  wdien  the  peasants  of  this  landlord  should  live  sepa- 
rate from  other  people  and  have  no  connection  with  an}'  one 
besides  themselves  and  the  landlord  ;  and  secondly,  when  the 
landlord  eniplo_ys  money,  not  in  purchasing  things  in  his  own 
village,  but  elsewhere.  It  is  only  under  these  two  conditions 
that  the  prices  of  things,  though  changed  nominally,  would 
remain  relatively  the  same,  and  money  would  have  the  signifi- 
cation of  a  measure  of  value  and  of  a  medium  of  exchange. 

I)Ut  if  tiie  peasants  have  any  business  connections  with 
the  inhabitants  surrounding  them,  the  prices  of  the  articles 
of  their  produce,  as  sold  to  their  neighbors,  would  de})end 
upon  the  sum  of  money  required  from  them  b}'  their  landlord. 

(If  from  their  neighbors  less  money  is  required  than  from 
them,  then  their  productions  would  be  sold  cheaper  than  the 
productions  of  their  neighbors,  and  vice  versa.)  And  again, 
the  money-demand  made  by  the  landlord  ui)on  his  peasants 
would  cease  to  have  any  influence  upon  the  prices  of  the  arti- 
cles, only  when  the  sums  collected  by  the  landlord  were  not 
spent  in  Inlying  the  productions  of  his  own  peasants.  But  if 
he  spends  money  in  purcliasing  from  them,  it  is  plain  that 
the  prices  of  various  articles  will  constantly  vary  among  them 
according  as  the  landlord  bu^'s  more  of  one  thing  than 
another. 

Suppose  one  landlord  has  fixed  a  very  high  poll-tax,  and 
his  neiglibor  a  very  low  one  :  it  is  clear  tliat  on  the  estate  of 
the   first  landlord  every  thing  will  l)e  cheaper  than  on  the 


94-  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

estate  of  the  second,  and  that  the  prices  on  either  estate  will 
depend  only  npon  the  augmentation  and  diminution  of  the 
poll-tuxes.     This  is  one  influence  of  violence  upon  value. 

Another,  arising  out  of  the  first,  consists  in  the  relative 
value  of  all  things.  Suppose  one  landlord  is  fond  of  horses, 
and  pays  a  high  price  for  them  :  another  is  fond  of  towels, 
and  otfers  a  high  figure  for  them.  It  is  obvious  that  on  the 
estate  of  either  of  these  two  landlords,  the  horses  and  the 
towels  will  be  dear,  and  the  prices  for  these  articles  will  not 
be  in  proportion  to  those  of  cows  or  of  corn.  If  to-morrow 
the  collector  of  towels  dies,  and  his  heirs  are  fond  of  i)oullry, 
then  it  is  obvious  that  the  price  of  towels  will  fall,  and  that 
of  poultry  will  rise. 

Wherever  there  is  in  society  the  mastery  of  one  man  over 
another,  there  the  meaning  of  money  as  the  measure  of  л'акш 
at  once  yields  to  the  will  of  the  oppressor,  and  its  meaning  as 
a  medium  of  exchange  of  the  productions  of  labor  is  replaced 
by  another,  that  of  the  most  convenient  means  of  utilizing 
the  labor  of  others. 

The  oppressor  wants  money  neither  as  a  medium  of  ex- 
change.—  for  he  will  take  whatever  he  wants  without 
exchange,  —  nor  as  a  measure  of  value,  —  for  he  will  himself 
determine  the  value  of  every  thing,  —  but  only  for  the  con- 
venience it  affords  of  exercising  violence  ;  and  this  convenience 
consists  in  the  fact  that  money  maj^  be  saved  up,  and  is  the 
most  convenient  means  of  holding  in  slavery  the  majority  of 
mankind. 

It  is  not  convenient  to  carry  away  all  the  cattle  in  order 
always  to  have  horses,  cows,  and  sheep  whenever  Avanted, 
because  they  must  be  fed ;  the  same  holds  good  with  corn, 
for  it  may  be  spoiled  ;  the  same  with  slaves  ;  sometimes  a 
man  may  require  thousands  of  workmen,  and  sometimes 
none.  Money  demanded  from  those  who  have  not  got  it, 
makes  it  possible  to  get  rid  of  all  these  inconveniences,  and 
to  have  every  thing  that  is  required  :  this  is  why  the  oppressor 
wants  money.  Besides  this,  he  wants  money  in  order  that  his 
right  to  utilize  another's  labor  may  not  be  confined  to  certain 
men,  but  may  be  extended  to  all  men  wdio  likewise  require  it. 

When  there  was  no  money  in  circulation,  each  landlord 
could  utilize  the  labor  only  of  his  own  serfs  ;  but  when  they 
agreed  to  demand  from  their  peasants  money  wdiich  they  had 
not,  they  were  all  enabled  to  appropriate  without  distinction 
the  labor  of  the  men  on  every  estate. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  95 

Thus  the  oppressor  finds  it  more  convenient  to  press  all 
his  chiims  upon  another's  hxbor  in  the  shape  of  money,  and 
for  this  sole  object  is  it  desired.  To  the  victim  from  wliom 
it  is  taken  away,  money  cannot  be  of  use,  either  for  the  pur- 
pose of  exchange,  seeing  he  exchanges  without  money,  as  all 
nations  have  exchanged  who  had  no  government ;  nor  for  a 
measure  of  value,  because  this  is  fixed  witliout  him  ;  nor  for 
the  purpose  of  saving,  because  the  man  whose  productions 
are  taken  away  cannot  save  ;  neither  for  payments,  because 
an  oppressed  man  will  always  have  more  to  pay  than  to  re- 
ceive ;  and  if  he  does  receive  an}'  thing,  the  payment  will  be 
made,  not  in  money,  but  in  articles  of  merchandise  in  either 
case  ;  whether  the  workman  takes  goods  out  of  his  master's 
shop  as  remuneration  for  his  labor,  or  whether  he  buys  the 
necessaries  of  life  with  all  his  earnings  in  other  shops,  the 
money  is  required  from  him,  and  he  is  told  by  his  oppressors 
that  if  he  does  not  pay  it,  they  will  refuse  to  give  him  land 
or  bread,  or  will  take  away  his  cow  or  his  horse,  or  condenm 
him  to  work,  or  put  liim  in  prison.  He  can  only  free  himself 
from  all  this  by  selling  the  productions  of  his  toil,  his  own 
labor,  or  that  of  his  children. 

And  this  he  will  have  to  sell  according  to  those  prices 
which  will  be  established,  not  b}'  a  regular  exchange,  but 
by  the  authority  which  demands  money  of  him. 

Under  the  conditions  of  the  influence  of  tribute  and  taxes 
upon  the  prices  Avliich  everywhere  and  always  repeat  them- 
selves, as  with  the  laud-owners  in  a  narrow  circle,  so  also 
with  the  state  on  a  larger  scale  (in  which  the  causes  of  the 
modification  of  prices  are  as  obvious  to  us,  as  it  is  obvious 
how  the  hands  and  feet  of  puppets  are  set  in  motion,  to 
tiiose  who  look  behind  the  curtain  and  see  who  are  the  wire- 
l)ullers)  :  under  these  circumstances,  to  say  that  money  is 
a  medium  of  exchange  and  a  measure  of  value,  is  at  least 
astonishing. 

XX. 

All  slavery  is  based  solely  on  the  fact  that  one  man  can 
deprive  another  of  his  life,  and  by  threatening  to  do  so 
compel  him  to  do  his  луШ.  We  may  see  for  certain  that 
whenever  one  man  is  enslaved  by  another,  when  against 
his  own  will,  and  according  to  the  will  of  another,  he  does 
certain  actions,  which  are  contrary    to  his    inclination,  the 


96  WHAT  31  и  ST   WE  DO   THEN? 

cause,  if  traced  to  its  source,  is  nothing  more  nor  less  than 
a  result  of  this  threat.  If  a  man  gives  to  others  all  his 
labor,  has  not  enough  to  eat,  has  to  send  his  little  cliildrcu 
from  home  to  work  hard,  leaves  his  family,  and  devotes  all 
his  life  to  a  hated  and  unnecessary  task,  as  hap[)ens  before 
our  own  eyes  in  the  world  (which  we  term  civilized  because 
we  ourselves  live  in  it) ,  then  we  may  certainly  say  that 
he  does  so  only  because  not  to  do  so  would  be  equivalent 
to  loss  of  life. 

And  therefore  in  our  civilized  woild,  where  the  majority 
of  people,  amidst  terrible  privations,  perform  hated  laljors 
unnecessary*  to  themselves,  the  greater  number  of  men  are 
in  slavery  based  upon  the  threat  of  being  deprived  of  their 
existence.  Of  what,  tlien.  does  this  slavery  consist?  And 
wherein  lies  this  power  of  threat? 

In  olden  times  the  means  of  subjugation  and  the  threat 
to  kill  were  plain  and  obvious  to  all :  the  primitive  means 
of  enslaving  men  consisted  then  in  a  direct  threat  to  kill 
with  the  sword. 

An  armed  man  said  to  an  unarmed,  "I  can  kill  thee,  as 
thou  hast  seen  I  have  done  to  thy  brother,  but  I  do  not 
want  to  do  it:  I  will  spare  thee,  —  first,  because  it  is  not 
agreeable  for  me  to  kill  thee  ;  secondl}',  because,  as  well  for 
me  as  for  thee,  it  will  be  more  convenient  that  thou  shouldst 
labor  for  me  than  that  I  should  kill  thee.  Therefore  do 
all  I  order  thee  to  do,  but  know  that,  if  thou  refusest,  I  will 
take  til}'  life." 

So  the  unarmed  man  submitted  to  the  armed  one  ;  and 
did  every  thing  which  he  лvas  ordered  to  do.  The  unarmed 
man  laliored,  the  armed  threatened.  This  was  that  per- 
sonal slavery  which  appeared  first  among  all  nations,  and 
which  still  exists  among  primitive  races. 

This  means  of  enslaving  always  begins  the  work;  but 
when  life  becomes  more  complicated,  it  undergoes  a  change. 
With  the  complication  of  life,  such  a  means  presents  great 
inconveniences  to  the  oppressor.  He,  in  oixler  to  appropri- 
ate the  labor  of  the  weak,  has  to  feed  and  clothe  them, 
and  keep  them  able  to  work,  and  so  the  number  of  slaves 
is  diminished  :  besides,  this  compels  the  ensla\'er  to  remain 
continually  with  the  enslaved,  driving  him  to  work  by  the 
threat  of  murdering  him.  And  thus  is  developed  another 
means  of  subjugation. 

Five  thousand  years   ago  (as   we  find  in  the  Bible)  this 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN  ?  97 

novel,  convenient,  and  clever  means  of  oppression  was  dis- 
covered by  Joseph  the  Beautiful. 

It  is  similar  to  that  employed  now  in  the  menageries  for 
taming  restive  horses  and  wild  beasts. 

It  is  hunger  !  / 

This  contrivance  is  thus  described  in  the  Bible  :  — 

Genesis  xli.  48  :  And  he  gathered  up  all  the  food  of  the 
seven  years,  which  were  in  the  land  of  Egypt,  and  laid  up 
the  food  in  the  cities :  the  food  of  the  field,  which  was 
round  about  every  city,  laid  he  up  in  the  same. 

4LI.  And  Joseph  gathered  corn  as  the  sand  of  the  sea, 
vei'y  much,  until  he  left  numbering ;  for  it  was  without 
number. 

53.  And  the  seven  years  of  plenteousuess,  that  was  in 
the  land  of  Egypt,  were  ended. 

54.  And  the  seven  years  of  dearth  began  to  come,  ac- 
cording as  Joseph  had  said  :  and  the  dearth  was  in  all  lands  ; 
but  in  all  the  laud  of  Egypt,  there  was  bread. 

55.  And  when  all  the  land  of  Egypt  was  famished,  the 
people  cried  to  Pharaoh  for  bread :  and  Pharaoh  said  unto 
all  the  Egyptians,  Go  unto  Joseph;  what  he  saith  to  you, 
do. 

50.  And  the  famine  was  over  all  the  face  of  the  earth  : 
And  Joseph  opened  all  the  storehouses,  and  sold  unto  the 
Egyptians  ;  and  the  famine  waxed  sore  in  the  land  of  Egypt. 

57.  And  all  countries  came  into  Egypt  to  Joseph  for  to 
buy  corn  ;  because  that  the  famine  was  so  sore  in  all  lands. 

Joseph,  making  use  of  the  primitive,  means  of  enslaving 
men  by  the  threat  of  the  sword,  gathered  corn  during  the 
seven  years  of  plenty  in  expectation  of  seven  yeai"s  of 
famine,  which  generally  follow  years  of  plent}',  — men  know 
all  this  without  the  dreams  of  Pharaoh,  —  and  then  by  the 
Ijangs  of  hunger  he  more  securely  and  conveniently  made  all 
the  Egyptians  and  the  inhabitants  of  the  surrounding  coun- 
tries slaves  to  Pharaoh.  And  when  the  people  began  to  be 
famislied,  he  arranged  matters  so  as  to  keep  them  in  his 
power  forever. 

Genesis  xlvii.  13  :  And  there  was  no  bread  in  all  the  land  ; 
for  the  famine  луав  л-егу  sore,  so  that  the  land  of  Eg.\  pt 
and  all  the  land  of  Canaan  fainted  by  reason  of  the  famine. 


98  WHAT  MUST    WE  1)0    THEN? 

14.  And  Joseph  gathered  up  all  the  топез'  that  was  found 
in  the  land  of  Egypt,  and  in  the  land  of  Canaan,  for  the 
corn  which  they  bought :  and  Joseph  brought  the  money  into 
Pharaoh's  house. 

15.  And  when  money  failed  in  the  laud  of  Egypt,  and  in 
the  land  of  Canaan,  all  the  Egyptians  came  unto  Joseph, 
and  said.  Give  us  bread  :  for  why  should  we  die  in  th^-  pres- 
ence? for  the  money  faileth. 

16.  And  Joseph  said,  Give  your  cattle;  and  I  will  give 
yon  for  your  cattle,  if  money  fail. 

17.  And  the}^  brought  their  cattle  unto  Joseph:  and 
Joseph  gave  them  bread  in  exchange  for  horses,  and  for  the 
flocks,  and  for  the  cattle  of  the  herds,  i.ud  for  tlie  asses : 
and  he  fed  them  with  bread  for  all  their  cattle  for  that  year. 

18.  When  that  year  was  ended,  they  came  unto  him  the 
second  year,  and  said  unto  him.  We  will  not  hide  it  from  m\'^ 
Lord,  how  that  our  money  is  spent ;  my  lord  also  hath  our 
herds  of  cattle  ;  there  is  not  ought  left  in  the  sight  of  my 
lord,  but  our  bodies,  and  our  lands  : 

19.  AVherefore  shall  we  die  before  thine  eyes,  both  лге 
and  our  land?  buy  us  and  our  land  for  bread,  and  we  and 
our  land  will  be  servants  unto  Pharaoli :  and  give  us  seed, 
that  we  ma}^  live,  and  not  die.  that  the  land  be  not  desolate. 

20.  And  Josepli  bought  all  the  laud  of  Egypt  for  Plia- 
raoh  ;  for  the  Eg^'ptians  sold  every  man  his  field,  because  the 
famine  prevailed  over  them  :  so  the  land  became  Pharaoh's. 

21.  And  as  for  the  people,  he  removed  them  to  cities  from 
one  end  of  the  borders  of  Egypt  even  to  the  other  end 
•thereof. 

22.  Onl}'  the  land  of  the  priests  bought  he  not ;  for  the 
priests  had  a  portion  assigned  them  of  Pharaoh,  and  did  eat 
their  portion  Avhich  Pharaoh  gave  them  :  wherefore  they  sold 
not  their  lands. 

23.  Then  Joseph  said  unto  the  people.  Behold,  I  have 
bought  you  this  day  and  your  land  for  Pharaoh  :  lo,  here  is 
seed  for  3'ou,  and  ye  shall  sow  the  land. 

24.  And  it  shall  come  to  pass  in  the  uicrease,  that  ye  shall 
give  the  fifth  part  unto  Pharaoh,  and  four  parts  shall  be 
3'our  own,  for  seed  of  the  field,  and  for  your  food,  and  for 
them  of  3'our  households,  and  for  food  for  your  little  ones. 

25.  And  they  said.  Thou  hast  saved  our  lives  :  let  us  find 
grace  in  the  sight  of  my  lord,  and  we  will  be  Pharaoh's 
servants. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  99 

2G.  And  Joseph  made  it  a  law  over  the  land  of  Egypt 
unto  this  day,  that  Piiaraoh  should  haA'e  the  fifth  part ;  except 
the  land  of  the  priests  only,  which  became  not  Pharaoh's. 

Formerly,  in  order  to  appi'opriate  labor,  riiaraoh  had  to 
use  violence  towards  them  ;  but  now,  when  the  stores  and  the 
land  belonged  to  Pharaoh,  he  had  only  to  keep  these  stores 
by  force,  and  by  means  of  hunger  compel  men  to  labor  for 
him. 

All  the  laud  now  belonged  to  Pharaoh,  and  he  had  all  the 
stores  (which  were  taken  away  from  the  people)  ;  and  there- 
fore, instead  of  driving  them  to  work  iudividnally  b}'  the 
sword,  he  had  only  to  keep  food  from  them,  and  they  were 
enslaved,  not  by  the  sword,  but  by  hunger. 

In  a  year  of  scarcity,  all  men  may  be  starved  to  death  at 
Pharaoh's  will ;  and  in  a  year  of  plentj',  all  may  be  killed 
who,  fiom  casual  misfortunes,  Ьал'е  no  stores  of  corn. 

And  thence  comes  into  oi)eration  the  second  means  of 
enslaving,  not  directly  with  the  sword,  —  that  is,  by  the  strong 
man  driving  tlie  weak  one  to  labor  under  threat  of  killing 
liim,  —  but  b}'  the  strong  one  having  taken  away  from  the  Aveak 
the  stores  of  corn  Avhich,  keeping  by  the  sword,  he  compels 
the  weak  to  work  for. 

Joseph  said  to  the  hungry  men,  ''I  could  starve  you  to 
death,  because  I  have  the  corn  ;  but  I  will  spare  your  life, 
but  only  under  the  condition  that  you  do  all  1  order  you  for 
the  food  which  I  will  give  3'ou."  For  the  first  means  of 
enslaving,  the  oppressor  needs  only  soldiers  to  ride  to  and 
fro  among  the  inhabitants,  and  under  threat  of  death  make 
them  fulfil  the  requirements  of  their  master.  And  thus  the 
oppressor  has  only  to  pay  his  soldiers  ;  but  with  the  second 
means,  besides  these  the  oppressor  must  have  different  assist- 
ants for  keeping  and  protecting  the  land  and  stores  from 
the  starving  people. 

These  are  the  Josephs  and  his  stewards  and  distrilmters. 
And  tlie  oppressor  has  to  reward  them,  and  to  give  Joseph  a 
dress  of  fine  linen,  a  gold  ring,  and  servants,  and  corn  and 
silver  to  his  brothers  and  relatives.  Besides  this,  fi-om  the 
very  nature  of  this  second  means,  not  only  the  stewards  and 
their  relations,  but  all  those  who  have  stores  of  corn,  become 
participators  in  this  violence,  just  as  by  the  first  means,  based 
upon  crude  force,  every  one  who  has  arms  becomes  a  part- 
ner in  tyranny  ;  so  b}'  this  means,  based  upon  hunger,  every 


100  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

one  who  has  stores  of  provision  shares  in  it,  and  has  powei 
over  those  who  have  no  stores. 

The  advantage  of  this  means  over  the  former  for  the  op- 
pressor, consists,  first  and  chiefl}',  in  the  fact  that  he  need 
no  longer  compel  the  workingraen  by  force  to  do  his  will, 
for  they  themselves  come  to  him,  and  sell  themselves  to  him  ; 
secondly,  in  the  circniustance  that  fewer  men  escape  from 
his  violence  :  the  draw'back  is,  that  he  has  to  employ  a  greater 
number  of  men.  For  the  oppressed  the  advantage  of  it  consists 
in  the  fact  that  they  are  no  longer  exposed  to  rough  violence, 
but  are  left  to  themselves,  and  can  always  hope  to  pass  from 
being  the  oppressed  to  become  oppressors  in  their  turn, 
which  they  sometimes  reall}'  do  by  fortunate  circumstances. 
The  drawback  for  them  is,  that  the}'  can  never  escape  from 
participating  in  the  oppression  of  others. 

This  new  means  of  enslaving  generally  comes  into  opera- 
tion together  with  the  old  one ;  and  the  oppressor  lessens  the 
one  and  increases  the  other,  according  to  his  desires. 

But  this  does  not  fully  satisfy  the  man  who  wishes  to  have 
as  little  trouble  and  care  as  possible,  and  to  take  away  as 
much  as  possible  of  the  productions  of  labor  of  as  many 
working-people  as  he  can  find,  and  to  enslave  as  many  men 
as  possible  ;  and,  therefore,  a  third  means  of  oppression  is 
evolved. 

This  is  the  slavery  of  taxation,  and,  like  the  second,  it  is 
based  upon  hunger ;  but  to  the  means  of  subduing  men  by 
depriving  them  of  bread,  is  added  the  privation  of  other 
necessaries  of  life. 

The  oppressor  requires  from  the  slaves  such  a  quantity  of 
money  which  he  himself  has  coined,  that,  in  order  to  olitain 
it,  the  slaves  are  compelled  to  sell  not  only  stores  of  corn  in 
greater  quantity  than  the  fifth  part  which  was  fixed  by 
Joseph,  but  the  first  necessaries  of  life  as  well, —  meat,  skins, 
wool,  clothes,  firewood,  even  their  dwellings  ;  and  therefore 
the  oppressor  always  keeps  his  slaves  in  his  ])ower,  not  onl}' 
Ьз'  hunger,  but  by  hunger,  thirst,  cold,  and  other  privations. 

And  then  the  third  means  of  slaver}'  comes  into  oi)eration, 
a  monetary,  a  tributary  one,  consisting  in  the  oppressor  say- 
ing to  the  oppressed,  "  I  can  do  with  each  of  з'ои  just  what 
I  like  ;  I  can  kill  and  destroy  you  by  taking  away  tiie  land  by 
which  you  earn  3'our  living;  I  can,  with  tliis  money  which 
3'ou  must  give  me,  bu}^  all  the  corn  upon  which  з^оп  feed,  and 
sell  it  to  strangers,  and  at  an}'  time  annihilate  you  by  bturva- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  101 

tion  ;  I  can  take  from  you  all  that  you  have, — your  cattle, 
your  houses,  your  clothes  ;  but  it  is  ueither  convenient  nor 
agTeeable  for  me  to  do  so,  and  therefore  1  let  you  alone,  to 
work  as  you  please  ;  only  give  me  so  much  of  the  nione}' 
which  I  demand  of  3'ou,  either  as  a  poll-tax,  or  according  to 
the  quantity  of  your  food  and  drink,  or  your  clothes  or  your 
houses.  Give  me  this  money,  and  do  what  you  like  among 
yourseh^es,  but  know  that  I  shall  neither  protect  nor  main- 
tain widows  nor  orphans  nor  invalids  nor  old  people,  nor 
such  as  have  been  burned  out :  I  shall  only  protect  the  i-egular 
circulation  of  this  money.  This  right  will  always  be  mine  to 
protect  only  those  who  regularly  give  me  the  fixed  numl)er  of 
tliese  pieces  of  money :  as  to  how  or  where  you  get  it,  I  will 
not  in  the  least  trouble  myself."  And  so  the  o[)pressor  dis- 
tiibntes  these  pieces  of  money  as  an  acknowledgment  that 
his  demand  has  been  complied  with. 

The  second  means  of  enslaving  consists  in  tliat,  having 
taken  away  the  fifth  part  of  the  harvest,  and  collected  stores 
of  corn,  the  Pharaoh,  besides  the  personal  slavery  by  tlie 
sword,  receives,  by  his  assistants,  the  possibility  of  dominion 
over  the  working-people  during  the  time  of  famine,  and  over 
some  of  them  forever  from  misfortunes  which  happen  to 
them. 

The  third  means  consists  in  this  :  Pharaoh  requires  from 
the  working-peojile  moi'c  money  than  the  л'аЬю  of  the  fifth 
part  of  corn  which  he  took  from  them  ;  he,  together  with  his 
assistants,  gets  a  new  means  of  dominion  over  the  working- 
class,  not  merely  during  the  famine  and  their  casual  misfor- 
tunes, but  permanently.  By  the  second  means,  men  retain 
stores  of  corn  whieii  [iel[)  them  to  bear  indifferent  harvests 
and  casual  misfortunes  without  going  into  slavery  ;  by  the 
third,  when  there  are  more  demands,  the  stores,  not  of  corn 
only,  but  of  all  other  necessaries  of  life,  are  taken  away  fi'om 
them,  and  at  the  first  misfortune  a  workingman,  having 
neither  stores  of  corn,  nor  any  other  stores  which  he  might 
have  exchanged  for  corn,  falls  into  slavery  to  those  who  have 
monc)'. 

For  the  first,  an  oppressor  need  have  only  soldiers,  and 
share  the  booty  with  them  ;  for  the  second,  he  must  have, 
besides  the  protectors  of  the  land  and  tiie  stores  of  corn, 
collectors  and  clerks  for  the  distribution  of  this  corn  ;  for 
the  third,  he  must  have,  besides  the  soldiers  for  keeping 
the  laud  and   his   property,    collectors   of   taxes,  assessors 


102  WHAT  MUST   WE  BO   THEN? 

of  direct  and  indirect  taxation,  supervisors,  custom-house 
clerks,  managers  of  money,  and  coiners  of  it. 

Tlie  organization  of  tlie  tliird  means  is  much  more  com- 
plicated than  tliat  of  the  second.  By  the  second,  the  getting 
in  of  corn  may  be  leased  out,  as  was  tlie  case  in  olden  limes 
and  is  still  in  Turkey;  but  by  putting  taxes -on  men,  there 
is  need  of  a  coni[)licated  administration,  which  has  to  in- 
sure tliat  the  taxes  are  rightly  levied.  And  therefore,  I)y 
the  third  means,  the  op[)ressor  has  to  share  the  plunder 
with  a  still  greater  number  of  men  than  by  the  second  ; 
besides,  according  to  the  very  natui-e  of  the  thing,  all  those 
men  of  the  same  or  of  the  foreign  country  who  possess 
money,  become  sharers  with  the  oppressed. 

The  advantage  of  this  means  over  the  first  and  second 
consists  in  the  following  fact :  chiefly  that  by  it  there  is 
no  need  of  waiting  for  a  year  of  scarcity,  as  in  the  time  of 
Joseph,  but  3'ears  of  famine  are  established  forever,  and 
(whilst  by  the  second  method  the  part  of  the  labor  which 
is  taken  алуау  depends  upon  the  harvest,  and  cannot  be 
augmented  ad  libitum^  because  if  there  is  no  corn,  there 
can  be  nothing  to  take)  by  the  new  monetary  method 
the  requirement  can  be  brought  to  any  desired  limit,  for 
the  demand  for  money  can  ahvaj's  be  satisfied,  because  the 
delator,  in  order  to  satisfy  it,  will  sell  his  cattle,  clothes,  or 
houses.  The  chief  advantage  of  this  means  to  the  oppressor 
consists  in  the  fact  that  by  it  he  can  take  away  the  greatest 
quantit}'  of  labor  and  in  the  most  con\'enieut  vray  ;  for  a 
money-tax,  like  a  screws  may  easily  and  convenienth-  be 
screwed  up  to  the  utmost  limit,  and  golden  eggs  be  obtained 
thougli  the  bird  that  lays  them  is  all  but  dead. 

Another  of  its  advantages  for  the  oppressor  is  that  its 
violence  reaches  all  those  also  who,  by  possessing  no  land, 
escaped  from  it  formerly  by  giA'ing  only  a  part  of  their 
labor  for  corn  ;  and  now  besides  that  part  which  they  give 
for  corn,  they  must  give  another  part  for  taxes.  A  draw- 
l)ack  for  the  oppressor  is,  that  he  has  to  share  the  plunder 
with  a  still  greater  number  of  men,  not  only  with  his  direct 
assistants,  but  also  лу11Ь  all  those  men  of  his  own  country, 
and  even  foreign  countries,  who  may  have  the  mone}'  which 
is  demanded  from  the  slaves. 

Its  advantage  for  the  oppressed  is  only  that  he  is  allowed 
greater  independence :  he  may  live  wherever  he  chooses, 
do  whatever  he  likes  ;  he  may  sow  or  not  sow ;   he  has  not 


WHAT  MUST    IVE  DO    ТПЕ. 

to  give  an}^  account  of  his  labor ;  and  if  he  i 
may   consider  himself  entirely  free,  and   cous 
though   only^  for  a  time,   when  he  has   money  U 
obtain    not    only    an    independent    position,    bu 
become  an  oppressor  himself. 

The  drawback  is-,  that,  on  a  general  aA'erage,  the  i 
of  the  oppressed  becomes  much  worse,  and   they  i 
piived  of  the  greater  part  of  the  productions  of  their  . 
because  by  it  the  number  of  those  who  utilize  the  labo 
others  increases,  and  therefore  tlie  burden  of  keeping  th 
falls  upon  a  smaller  number  of  men.     This  third  means 
enslaving  men  is  also  a  ver}^  old  one,  and  comes  into  opei 
ation  with  the  former  two  without  entirely  excluding  them. 

All  three  have  always  been  in  operation.  All  may  be 
likened  to  screws,  which  secure  the  board  w'liich  is  laid  upon 
the  working-people,  and  which  presses  them  down.  The 
fundamental,  or  middle  screw,  without  which  the  other 
screws  could  not  hold,, which  is  first  screwed  up.  and  which 
is  never  slackened,  is  the  screw  of  personal  slavery,  the 
enslaving  of  some  men  by  others  under  threat  of  slaughter ; 
the  second,  which  is  screwed  up  after  the  first,  is  that  of 
enslaving  men  by  taking  awaj'  the  laud  and  stores  of  pro- 
visions from  them,  such  abduction  })eing  maintained  under 
threat  to  murder;  and  the  third  screw  is  slavery  enforced 
by  the  requirement  of  certain  coins  ;  and  this  demand  is 
also  maintained  under  threat  of  murder. 

These  three  screws  are  made  fast,  and  it  is  onl}'  when  one 
of  them  is  tightened  that  the  two  others  are  slackened.  For 
the  complete  enslaving  of  the  workingman,  all  three  are  neces- 
sary ;  and  in  our  society,  all  three  are  in  operation  together. 
The  first  means  by  personal  slavery  under  the  threat  of  mur- 
der by  the  sword  has  never  been  abolished,  and  never  will 
l)e  so  long  as  there  is  oi)pression,  because  all  kinds  of  oi)pres- 
sion  are  I)ased  upon  this  alone.  AVe  are  all  very  sure  that 
personal  slavery  is  abolished  in  our  civilized  world  ;  that  the 
last  remnant  of  it  has  been  annihilated  in  America  and  in 
Russia,  and  that  it  isonh'  among  barbarians  that  real  slavery 
exists,  and  that  with  us  it  is  no  longer  in  being. 

We  forget  only  one  small  circumstance,  — those  hundreds 
of  millions  of  standing  troops,  without  which  no  state  exists, 
and  witii  the  abolition  of  which  all  the  economical  organiza- 
tion of  each  state  would  inevitably  fall  to  pieces.  Yet  what 
are  these  millions  of  soldiers  but  the  personal  slaves  of  those 


HAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

r  them?     Are  not  these  men  com])ellecl  to  do 
leir  comraauders,  under  the  threat  of  torture  and 
threat  often  carried  out?  the  difference  consisting 
e  fact  tliat  the  submission  of  these  slaves  is  not 
„very,  but  discipline  ;  the  only  difference  being  that 
.•eso  from  their  birth,  and  soldiers' onl^' during  a  more 
short  period  of  their  so-called  service, 
sonal  slavery,  therefore,  is  not  only   not  abolished  in 
civilized  world,  but,  under  the  general  system  of  recruit- 
,,   it  has  become  confirmed  of  late  j'ears  ;  and  as  it  has 
ways  existed,  so  it  has  remained,  having  only  somewhat 
jhauged  from  its  original  form.     And  it  cannot  but  exist, 
because,  so  long  as  there    is  the  enslaving  of  one  man  by 
another,  there  will  be  this  personal  slavery  too,  that  which 
under  threat  of  the  sword  maintains  the  serfdom  of  land- 
ownership  and  taxes. 

It  may  be  that  this  slavery,  that  is,  of  troops,  is  neces- 
sary, as  it  is  said,  for  the  defence  and  the  glor}^  of  the 
country  ;  but  this  kind  of  utility  is  more  than  doubtful,  be- 
cause we  see  how  often  in  the  case  of  unsuccessful  wai's  it 
serves  only  for  the  subjugation  and  shame  of  the  country  ; 
but  the  expediency  of  this  slavery  for  maintaining  that  of  the 
land  and  taxes  is  unquestionable. 

If  Irish  or  Russian  peasants  were  to  take  possession  of  the 
land  of  the  land-owners,  troops  would  be  sent  to  dispossess 
them. 

If  you  build  a  distillery  or  a  brewery,  and  do  not  pa}'  ex- 
cise, then  soldiers  will  be  sent  to  shut  it  up.  Refuse  to  pay 
taxes,  the  same  thing  will  happen  to  you. 

The  second  screw  is  the  means  of  enslaving  men  b}'  taking 
away  from  them  the  land  and  their  stores  of  provisions. 
This  means  has  also  been  always  in  existence  wherever  men 
are  oppressed  ;  and,  whatever  changes  it  may  undergo,  it  is 
everywhere  in  operation. 

.Sometimes  all  the  land  belongs  to  the  sovereign,  as  is  the 
case  in  Turkey,  and  there  one-tenth  is  given  to  the  state 
treasury.  Sometimes  a  part  of  the  land  belongs  to  the  sove- 
reign, and  taxes  are  raised  upon  it.  Sometimes  all  the  land 
belongs  to  a  few  people,  and  is  let  out  for  labor,  as  is  the 
case  ill  England.  .Sometimes  more  or  less  large  portions  of 
the  land  belong  to  the  land-owners,  as  is  the  case  in  Russia, 
Germany,  and  France.  But  wherever  there  is  enslaving, 
there  exists  also  the  appropriation  of  the  land  b}'  the  oi)- 


/ 


WHAT  3ICrST    W^BO    THE 

./ 

m 

prcssoi-.     This  screw  is  slackened  or  tightem 
the  couditioii  of  the  other  screws. 

Thus,  in  Russia,  when  personal  slaver}'  was 
tlie  majority  of  working-people,  there  was  no  ne 
slavery  ;  but  the  screw  of  personal  slavery  was  sL 
Russia  only  Avhen  the  screws  of  land  and  tax  sla'. 
tightened. 

In  England,  for  instance,  the  land  slavery  is  pre-em 
in  operation,  and  the  question  about  the  nationalizing  с 
land  consists  only  in  the  screw  of  taxation  being  tightent 
order  that  the  screw  of  land  appropriation  may  be  slacken^ 

The  third  means  of  enslaving  men  by  taxes  has  also  bee 
in  operation  for  ages ;  and  in  our  days,  with  the  extension  ol 
uniform  standards  of  mone}'  and  the   strengthening  of  the 
state  power,  it  has  received  only  a  particular  influence. 

This  means  is  so  worked  out  in  our  days,  that  it  tends 
to  substitute  the  second  means  of  enslaving,  —  the  laud 
monopoly. 

This  is  the  screw  by  the  tightening  of  which  the  screw 
of  land  slavery  is  slackened,  as  is  obvious  from  the  politico- 
economical  state  of  all  Europe. 

We  have,  in  our  lifetime,  witnessed  in  Russia  two  trans- 
formations of  slavery  :  when  the  serfs  were  liberated,  and 
their  landlords  retained  the  right  to  the  greater  part  of  the 
land,  the  landlords  were  afraid  that  the}'  were  going  to  lose 
their  power  over  their  slaves  ;  but  experience  has  shown,  that, 
having  let  go  the  old  chain  of  personal  slavery,  they  had 
only  to  seize  another,  —  that  of  the  land.  A  peasant  was 
short  of  corn  ;  he  had  not  enough  to  Ил'е  on  :  and  the  landlord 
had  land  and  stores  of  corn,  and  therefore  the  peasant  still 
remained  the  same  slave. 

Another  transformation  was  caused  by  the  government 
screw  of  taxation  being  pressed  home,  when  the  majority  of 
working-people,  having  no  stores,  were  obliged  to  sell  them- 
selves to  their  landlords  and  to  the  factories.  The  new 
form  of  oppression  held  the  people  still  tighter,  so  that 
nine-tenths  of  the  Russian  working-people  are  working  for 
their  landlords  and  in  the  factoiies  to  pay  these  taxes.  This 
is  so  obvious,  that,  if  the  government  were  not  to  raise  taxes 
for  one  year  only,  all  labor  would  be  stop]ied  in  the  fields  of 
the  landlords  and  in  the  factories.  Nine-tenths  of  the 
Ru'^sian  people  hire  theuiselves  out  during  and  before  the 
collection  of  taxes.     All  these  three  means  have  never  ceased 


ЛТ  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

are  still  in  operation  ;  but  men  are  ineliued  to 

.md  new  excuses  are  invented  for  them, 

is  most  remarkable  of  all  is  this,  that  the  very 

hich,  at  the  moment  in  question,  every  thing  is 

.it   screw   which    is   screwed   up   tighter   than    all 

hich  holds  every  thing,  is  not  noticed  so  long  as  it 

When  in  the  ancient  world  all  the  economical  admin- 

/u  was  upheld  by  personal  slavery,  the  greatest  intellects 

ot  notice  it.     To  Plato,  as  well  as  to  Xenophon  and 

cotle  and  to  the  Romans,  it  seemed  that  it  could  not  be 

iCrwise,  and  that  slavery  was  an  unavoidable  and  natural 

,sult   of    wars,  without   which   the    existence  of    mankind 

jould  not  be  thought  of.     So  also  in  the  Middle  Ages  and  up 

to  the  present  time,  men  have  not  apprehended  the  meaning 

of  laud-ownership,  upon  which  depended  all  the  economical 

administration  of  their  time. 

So  also,  at  present,  no  one  sees,  or  wants  to  see,  that  in 
our  time  the  enslaving  of  the  majority  of  the  people  depends 
upon  taxes  collected  b}'  the  government  from  its  own  land 
slaves,  taxes  collected  by  the  troops,  b}'  the  very  same  troops, 
which  are  maintained  by  means  of  these  taxes. 


XXI. 

No  wonder  that  the  slaves  themselves,  who  have  always 
been  enslaved,  do  not  understand  their  own  position,  and 
that  this  condition  in  which  they  have  always  been  living  is 
considered  b}'  them  to  be  that  natural  to  human  life,  and 
that  they  hail  as  a  relief  any  change  in  their  foi'm  of  slavery  ; 
no  wonder  that  their  owners  sometimes  quite  sincerel}^  think 
the}'  are,  in  a  measure,  freeing  the  slaves  by  slackening  one 
screw,  though  they  are  compelled  to  do  so  by  the  over-tension 
of  another. 

Both  become  accustomed  to  their  state  ;  and  one  part,  — 
the  slaves. — never  having  known  what  freedom  is.  merely 
seek  an  alleviation,  or  onl}'  the  change  of  their  condition  ; 
the  other,  — the  owners,  —  wishing  to  mask  their  injustice,  try 
to  assign  a  particular  meaning  to  those  new  forms  of  slavery 
■which  they  enforce  in  place  of  older  ones :  but  it  is  womler- 
ful  how  the  majority  of  the  investigators  of  the  economical 
conditions  of  the  life  of  the  people  fail  to  see  that  which 
forms  the  basis  of  all  the  economical  conditions  of  a  people. 


WnAT  MUST    WE  1)0    TL 

It  would  seem  that  the  dut}'  of  a  true  sc. 
to  ascertain  the  couuection  of  the  phenomci 
cause  of  a  series  of  occurrences.     But  the  n 
representatives  of  modern  Political  Economy  ь 
the  reverse  of  this  :  they  carefully  hide  the  col 
meaning  of  the  phenomena,  and  avoid  answeriL 
sim[)le  and  essential  questions. 

Modern  Political  Econom}^  like  an  idle,  lazy  ct. 
goes  well  only  doлvn-llill,  wlien  it  has  no  collar-work 
soon  as  it  has  any  thing  to  draw,  it  at  once  refuses,  prel 
it  has  to  go  somewhere  aside  after  its  own  l)usiness. 
any  grave,  essential  question  is  put  to  Political  Econc 
scientific  discussions  are  started  about  some  matter  or  oth 
which  does  not  in  the  least  concern  the  question. 

You  ask,  How  are  we  to  account  for  a  fact  so  unnaturai 
monstrous,  unreasonable,  and  not  useless  only,  but  harmful, 
tliat  some  men  can  eat  or  work  only  in  accordance  with  the 
will  of  other  men? 

And  you  are  gravely  answered.  Because  some  men  must 
arrange  the  labor  and  the  feeding  of  others,  —  such  is  the 
law  of  production. 

You  ask,  What  is  this  right  of  property,  according  to 
which  some  men  appropriate  to  themselves  the  land,  food, 
and  instruments  of  labor  belonging  to  others?  You  are 
again  gravely  answered.  This  right  is  based  upon  the  pro- 
tection of  labor, — that  is,  the  protection  of  some  men's 
lal)or  is  effected  b}'  taking  possession  of  the  labor  of  other 
men. 

You  ask.  What  is  that  money  which  is  everywhere  coined 
and  stamped  by  the  governments,  by  the  authorities,  and 
wliicli  is  so  exorbitantly  demanded  from  the  working-peoi)le, 
and  which  in  the  shape  of  national  debts  is  levied  upon  the 
future  generations  of  woikingmen?  And  further,  has  not 
this  moncN'.  demanded  from  the  people  in  the  sliape  of  taxes, 
raised  to  the  utmost  pitch,  has  not  this  money  any  infiuence 
u\)on  tlie  economical  relationships  of  men,' — between  the 
payers  and  the  receivers?  And  3'ou  are  answered  in  all  seri- 
ousness, Money  is  an  article  of  merchandise  like  sugar,  or 
chintz  ;  and  it  differs  from  other  articles  only  in  the  fact  that 
it  is  more  convenient  for  exchange. 

As  for  the  influence  of  taxes  upon  the  economical  condi- 
tions of  a  people,  it  is  a  different  question  altogether:  the 
laws  of  production,  exchange,  and  distribution  of  wealth,  aie 


LT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

axation  is  quite  another.     You  ask  whether 

once  upon  the  economical  conditions  of  a  peo- 

overnnient  can  arbitrarily  raise  or  lower  prices, 

augmented  the  taxes,  can  enslave  all  those  who 

id?     The  i)ompous  answer  is,  Tiie  laws  of  pro- 

^change,  and  distribution  of  wealth  is  one  science, 

x\  Economy  ;  and  taxes,  and,  general!}-  speaking, 

eouomy,  come  under  another  head,  —  the   Law   of 

.1   ask   finally.    Is   there  no    influence   exercised   upon 

jmical  conditions  by  the  circumstance  that  all  the  people 

in  bondage  to  the  government,  and  that  this  governnient 

n  arbitrarily  ruin  all  men,  take  away  all  the  productions  of 

. Oil's  labor,  and  even  carry  the  men  themselves  away  from 
cheir  labor  into  military  slaver^'?  You  are  answered.  That 
this  is  altogether  a  different  question,  belonging  to  the  State 
Law. 

The  majorit}''  of  the  representatives  of  science  discuss 
quite  serioush-  the  laws  of  the  economical  life  of  a  people, 
while  all  the  functions  and  activities  of  this  life  are  depend- 
ent upon  the  will  of  the  oppressor;  whilst,  at  the  same 
time,  recognizing  the  influence  of  the  op[)ressor  as  a  natural 
condition  of  the  life  of  a  people,  they  do  the  same  thing 
that  an  investigator  of  the  economical  conditions  of  the  life 
of  the  personal  slaves  of  different  masters  would  do,  were  he 
not  to  consider  the  influence  exercised  upon  the  life  of  these 
slaves  by  the  will  of  that  master  who  compels  them  to  labor 
upon  this  or  that  thing,  and  who  drives  them  from  one  place 
to  another,  according  to  his  pleasure,  who  feeds  them  or  neg- 
lects to  do  so,  who  kills  them  or  leaves  them  аИлт. 

A  dreadful  superstition  has  been  long,  and  is  still,  in  exist- 
ence, —  a  superstition  w'hich  has  done  more  harm  to  men  than 
all  the  most  terrible  religious  superstitions. 

And  so-called  science  supports  this  superstition  with  all  its 
power,  and  with  the  utmost  zeal.  This  superstition  resem- 
bles exactly  the  religious  one,  and  consists  in  atfirming,  that, 
besitles  the  duties  of  man  to  man,  there  are  still  more  impor- 
tant duties  towards  an  imaginary  being,  which  theologians 
call  God,  and  political  science  the  State. 

The  religious  superstition  consists  in  this  :  That  the  sacri- 
fices, sometimes  of  human  lives,  offered  to  this  imaginary 
being,  are  necessar}',  and  that  they  can  and  ought  to  be  en- 
forced  by   every  глеапз,  even   by  violence.     The  political 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Ti 

superstition  consists  in  tliis :  TImt,  besides 
to  num,  there  exist  still  more  important  cli. 
ginary  being  ;  and  the  offerings,  very  often,  ». 
brought   to   this  imaginary   being, — the   .Stai 
necessary,  and  can  and  ought  to  be  enforced  by  , 
even  by  violence. 

This  very  superstition  which  was  formerly  encc 
the  priests  of  different  religious,  is  now  sustaiue 
called  science. 

3Jeu  are  thrown  into  slavery,  into  the  most  terrible  ь 
worse  tlian  has  ever  before  existed  ;  but  so-called  scienc 
to  persuade  men  that  sucli  is  necessary,  and  cannot  be  avoi 

The  state  must  exist  for  the  welfare  and  business  of 
people  ;  to  rule  and  protect  them  from  their  enemies. 

For   this    puri)ose    the    state    wants    money    and    troops 
JNIone}'  must  be  subscribed  by  all  the  citizens  of  the  state. 
And  hence  all  the  relationships  of  men  must  be  considered 
under  the  conditions  of  the  existence  of  the  state. 

"  I  want  to  help  my  father  by  vay  labor,"  says  a  counnon, 
unlearned  man.  "  I  want  also  to  marry  ;  but  instead,  1  am 
taken  and  sent  to  Kazan,  to  be  a  soldier  for  six  years.  I 
leave  the  military  service.  I  want  to  plough  the  ground^ 
and  earn  food  for  my  family  ;  but  1  am  not  allowed  to  phjugh 
for  one  hundred  vei'sts  around  me,  unless  I  pay  money, 
which  1  have  not  got,  and  pay  it  to  those  men  who  do  not 
understand  how  to  plough,  and  who  require  for  the  land  so 
much  mone}',  that  I  must  give  tliem  all  my  labor  to  procure 
it :  how'ever.  I  still  manage  to  save  something,  and  I  want  to 
give  my  savings  to  my  children  ;  but  a  police  sergeant  comes 
to  me,  and  takes  from  me  all  I  had  saved  for  taxes :  I  earn  a 
little  more,  and  am  again  deprived  of  it.  All  mv  economical 
activity  is  under  the  influence  of  state  demands  ;  and  it  ap- 
pears to  me  that  the  amelioration  of  my  position,  and  that  of 
my  brethren,  will  follow  our  liberation  from  the  demands  of 
the  state." 

But  he  is  told,  such  reasoning  is  the  result  of  his  ignorance. 

Study  the  laws  of  pioduetion,  exchange  and  disti'il)Ution  of 
wealth,  and  do  not  mix  up  economical  questions  with  those 
of  the  state. 

The  phenomena  which  you  \)o\\\i  to  are  not  at  all  a  con- 
straint put  upon  your  freed(jm  ;  but  they  are  those  lU'ccssar^' 
sacrifices  whicli  you.  along  with  others,  must  make  for  your 
own  ficed.jU)  and  welfare. 


lT  must  we  do  then? 

.las  been  taken  away  from  mc,"  sa3's  again  a 

'  and  they  threaten  to  take  away  all  my  sons  as 

are  grown  up  :  they  took  him  away  by  force, 

m  to  face  tlie  enemy's  guns  into  some  country 

л'с  never  heard  of,  and  for  an  object  which  we 

erstand. 

oS  for  the  land  which  they  do  not  allow  us  to  plough, 

vvant  of  which  we  are  starving,  it  belongs  to  a  man 

t  possession  of  it  by  force,  and  whom  we  have  never 

aid  wliose  affairs  we  cannot  even  understand.      And 

axes,  to  collect  which  the  police  sergeant  has  by  force 

.n  away  my  cow  from  my  children,  so  far  as  I  know,  will 

over  to  this  same  man  who  took  my  cow  away,  and  to  va- 

ous  members  of  committees,  and  of  dei)artments  wdiich  I  do 

jot  know  of,  and  in  the  ntilit\'  of  which  I  do  not  l)elieve. 

How  is  it,  tiien,  that  all  these  acts  of  violence  secure  my 

liberty,  and  all  this  evil  is  to  procure  good?" 

You  may  com[)el  a  man  to  be  a  slave,  and  to  do  that  which 
he  considers  to  be  evil  for  himself,  but  you  cannot  com|)el 
him  to  tiiink,  that,  in  suttering  violence,  he  is  free,  and  that 
the  obvious  evil  which  he  endures,  constitutes  his  good. 

Yet  this  seemingly  impossible  thing  has  been  done  in  our 
days. 

The  government,  that  is,  the  armed  oppressors,  decide 
what  they  want  from  those  whom  they  o[ipress  (as  in  the 
case  of  England  and  the  Fiji-Islanders)  :  the}'  decide  how 
much  labor  they  want  from  their  slaves,  —  the}'  decide 
how  man}'  assistants  they  will  need  in  collecting  the  fruits 
of  this  labor;  they  organize  their  assistants  in  the  shape  of 
soldiers,  land-owners,  and  collectors  of  taxes. 

And  the  slaves  give  their  labor,  and,  at  the  same  time,  be- 
lieve that  they  give  it,  not  because  their  masters  demand  it, 
but  for  the  sake  of  their  own  freedom  and  welfare  ;  and  that 
this  service  and  these  bloody  sacrilices  to  the  divinity  called 
State  are  necessary,  and  that,  barring  this  service  to  their 
Deity,  they  are  free.  They  believe  it  because  the  same  had 
been  formerly  said  in  the  name  of  religion  by  the  priests^ 
and  is  now  said  in  the  name  of  so-called  science,  —  by 
learned  men. 

But  one  need  only  cease  to  ЬеИеле  what  is  said  by  other 

men,  who  call  themselves  priests  or  learned  men,  in  order 

that  the  absurdity  of  such  an  assertion  may  become  obvious. 

The  men  who  oppress  others  assure  them  that  this  oppres- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  BO    Th 

sion  is  necessaiy  for  the  state,  —  and  the  s 
for  the  freedom  and  welfare  of  men  ;  so  that 
the  oppressors  o[) press  men  for  the  sake  of  l 
and  do  tliem  evil  for  the  sake  of  good.      But 
uished  with  reason  in  order  to  understand  when 
their  own  good,  and  to  do  it  willing^. 

As  for  the  acts,  the  goodness  of  which  is  not  intt 
men,  and  to  which  they  are  compelled  by  force,  sue 
serve  for  their  good,  because  a  reasoning  being  may  l 
as  good  only  the  thing  which  appears  so  to  his  reaso. 
men  from  passion  or  folly  are  driven  to  evil,  all  that  . 
who  are  not  so  driven  can  do,  is  to  persuade  men  as  to  . 
constitutes  their  real  good.     You  may  try  to  persuade  n 
that  their  welfare  will  be  greater  when  they  are  all  becon, 
soldiers,  are  deprived  of  laud,  and  have  given  their  whole 
labor  away  for  taxes  ;  but  until  all  men  consider  this  condition 
to  be  their  welfare,  and  undertake  it  willingly',  one  cannot 
call  such  a  state  of  things  the  common  welfare  of  men. 

The  willing  acceptance  of  a  condition  by  men  is  the  sole 
criterion  of  its  good.  And  the  lives  of  men  al)ound  with 
such  acts.  Ten  workmen  buy  tools  in  common,  in  order  to 
work  together  with  them,  and  in  so  doing  they  are  undoubt- 
edly benelitiug  themselves  ;  but  we  cannot  sa[)pose  that  if 
tliese  ten  workmen  were  to  compel  an  eleventh,  by  force,  to 
join  in  their  association,  they  would  insist  that  their  common 
Avelfare  will  be  the  same  for  him. 

And  so  with  gentlemen  who  agree  to  give  a  subscription 
dinner  at  a  pound  a  head  to  a  mutual  friend,  no  one  can  assert 
that  such  a  dinner  will  benefit  a  man  who,  against  his  will, 
has  been  obliged  to  pay  a  sovereign  for  it ;  and  so  with  peas- 
ants who  decide,  for  their  common  convenience,  to  dig  a 
pond. 

For  those  Avho  consider  the  existence  of  such  more  л'акь 
able  timn  the  labor  spent  upon  it,  the  digging  of  it  will  be  a 
coinuion  good.  But  to  the  one  who  considers  the  existence 
of  the  pond  of  less  value  than  a  day's  harvesting,  in  which 
he  is  hi'liind-hand.  the  digging  of  it  will  appear  evil.  The 
same  iiolds  good  with  roads,  churches,  and  museums,  aud 
with  all  various  social  and  state  afl'aiis. 

All  such  work  may  be  good  for  those  who  consider  it  good, 
and  who  therefore  freely  and  willingly  perform  it, —  the  dinner 
which  the  gentlemen  give,  the  pond  which  the  peasants  dig. 
But  the  work  to  which  шеи  must  be  driveu  by  force,  ceases 


IT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

good  precisely  by  the  fact  of  such  violence. 
iuiii  and  simple,  that,  if  men  had  not  Ijcluj  so 
,  there  vvouUl  he  no  need  to  explain  it. 
с  live  in  a  village  where  all  tlie  inhat»itants  liave 
iiild  a  viaduct  over  the  morass  which  is  a  danger 
VV'e  agree  together,  and  promise  to  give  from  each 
niuch    in   money  or  wood  or  days  of    labor.      We 
do  this  because  tlie  making  of  this  road  is  more  ad- 
jous  to  ns  than  what  we  exchange  for  it ;  but  among 
re. are  some  for  whom  it  is  more  advantageous  to  do 
jut  a  road  than  to  spend  money  on  it,  or  who,  at  all 
its,  think  it  is  so.     Can  the  compelling  of  these  men  to 
dvB  the  w'ay  make  it  of  advantage    to  them?     Obviously 
ot ;    because  those   who   considered    that  their   joining  by 
choice  in  making  the  way  would  have  been  to  their  disad- 
vantage, will  consider  it,  a  fortiori,  still  more  disadvantageous 
when  ihey  are  compelled  to  do  so.     !Su[)pose.  even,  that  we 
all,  without  exception,  were  agreed,  and  promised  so  much 
money  or  labor  from  each  house,  but  ihat  it  happened  that 
some  of  those  who  had  promised   did   not   give  what  they 
agreed  on,  their  circumstances  having  meanwhile  changed, 
so  that  it  is  more  advantageous  for  such  now  to  be  without 
the  road  than  to  spend  mone}'  on  it ;  or  that  they  have  simply 
changed  their  mind  about  it,  or  even  calculate  that  others 
will  make  the  road  without  them,  and  that  thev  will  pass 
over  it.     Can  the  compelling  of   these  men  to  join  in  the 
labor  make  them  consider  the  sacrifices  enforced  upon  them 
their  own  good? 

Obviously  not ;  because,  if  such  have  not  fulfilled  what 
they  have  promised,  owing  to  a  change  in  their  circumstances, 
so  that  now  the  sacrifices  for  tlie  sake  of  the  road  outbalance 
their  gain  by  it,  the  compulsory  sacrifices  of  such  would  be 
only  a  worse  evil.  But  if  those  who  refuse  to  join  in  build- 
ing the  ])ridge  have  in  view^  the  utilizing  of  the  labor  of 
others,  then  in  this  case  also  the  compelling  them  to  maki'  a 
sacrifice  would  be  only  a  punishment  on  a  supi)osition,  and 
their  object,  which  noljod}'  can  prove,  will  be  punished  be- 
fore it  is  made  apparent :  but  in  neither  case  can  the  compel- 
ling them  to  join  m  a  work  undesired  b}'  them  be  good  for 
them. 

And  if  it  be  so  with  sacrifices  for  a  work  comprehensible 
by  all.  obvious  and  undoubtedly  useful  to  ail  as  a  road  over 
a  morass  ;   how  stiU  more  unjust  and  unreasonable   is  the 


WHAT  J/f/Sr    IVE  DO    Til. 

compelling  of  millions  of  men  to  make  sacri, 
of  which  is  iiicomprehensible,  imperceptible, 
doubtedly  harmful,  as  is  the  case  with  militar^^ 
with  taxes. 

But  it  is  believed  that  what  appears  to  ел'егу  о 
evil,  is  a  common  good  :   it  appears  that  there  a 
small  minority,  who  alone  know  what  the  common  j. 
sists   in,   and,  notwithstanding   the  fact  that  all  ot. 
consider  this  common  good  to  be  an  evil,  this  minoi. 
compel  other  men  to  do  whatever  they  may  consider 
for  the  common  good.     This  constitutes  the  chief  sup^ 
tion  and  the  chief  deceit,  which  hinders  the  progress  of  n 
kind  towards  the  True  and  the  Good. 

The  nursing   of   this   superstitious   deceit   has   been    tl 
ol)ject   of    political   sciences   in   general,   and   of    so-calleu 
Political  Economy  in  particular. 

Many  are  making  use  of  it  in  order  to  hide  from  men  the 
state  of  o[)pression  and  slavery  in  which  they  now  are. 

The  way  they  set  about  doing  so  is  b}'  stalling  the  theory 
that  violence,  connected  with  the  economy  of  social  slavery, 
is  a  natural  and  unavoidable  evil,  and  men  thereby-  are 
deceived,  and  turn  their  eyes  from  the  real  causes  of  their 
misfortiuies. 

Slavery  has  long  been  abolished.  It  has  been  abolished 
as  well  in  Kouie  as  in  America,  and  among  ourselves  ;  but 
the  woi'd  only  lias  been  abolished,  and  not  the  evil. 

Slavery  is  the  violent  freeing  of  some  men  from  the  labor 
necessary  for  satisfying  their  wants,  which  transfers  this 
labor  to  others  ;  and  wherever  there  is  a  man  who  does  not 
work,  not  because  others  willingly  and  lovingly  w^rk  for 
him,  but  because  he  has  the  possibility,  while  not  working 
himself,  to  make  others  work  for  him,  there  is  slavery. 

And  wherever  there  are,  as  is  the  case  witli  all  European 
societies,  men  who  by  means  of  violence  utilize  the  labor  of 
thousands  of  others,  and  consider  such  to  be  their  right,  and 
others  who  submit  to  this  violence  considei-ing  it  to  be  their 
duty,  —  there  is  slavery  in  its  most  dreadful  i)roportions. 

Slavery  does  exist.  In  what,  then,  does  it  consist?  In 
that  by  which  it  has  always  consisted,  and  without  which  it 
cannot  exist  at  all,  —  in  the  violence  of  a  strong  and  armed 
uian  over  a  weak  and  unarmed  one. 

Slavery  with  its  three  fundamental  modes  of  operation, — 
personal    violence,    soldiery,    laud-taxes,  —  maintained   by 


IT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

irect  and   indirect  taxes    put   upon   all  the 
d  so  maintained,  is  still  in  operation  now  as 
tore. 

t  see  it,  because  each  of  these  three  forms  of 
received  a  new  justification,  which  hides  its  mean- 
s. 
.sonal  violence  of  armed  over  unarmed  men  received 
.cation  in  the  defence  of  the  country  from  its  imagi- 
.emies,  while  in  its  essence  it  has  the  one  old  mean- 
-the  submission  of  the  conquered  to  the  oppressors. 
.e  taking  away  by  violence  from  the  laborers  of  their 
I  was  justified  as  a  recompense  for  services  rendered  to 
imaginary  common  welfare,  and  is  confirmed  by  the  right 
.  heritage  ;  but  in  reality  it  is  the  same  depriving  men  of 
and  and  enslaving  them,  which  has  been  performed  by  the 
troops. 

And  the  last,  tlie  monetary  violence  by  meaus  of  taxes, 
the  strongest  and  most  effective  in  our  days,  had  received  a 
most  wonderful  justification. 

The  depriving  men  of  the  possession  of  their  liberty  and 
of  all  their  goods  is  said  to  be  done  for  the  sake  of  the  com- 
mon liberty  and  of  the  common  welfare.  But  iu  fact  it  is 
the  same  shivery,  only  an  imi)ersonal  one. 

AVherever  violence  is  turned  into  law,  there  is  slavery. 
\Vhether  violence  finds  its  expression  in  the  circumstance 
that  princes  with  their  courtiers  come,  kill,  and  burn  down 
villages,  or  in  the  fact  that  the  slave-owners  take  labor  or 
money  for  the  land  from  their  slaves,  and  enforce  payment 
by  means  of  armed  men,  or  by  putting  taxes  on  others,  and 
riding  armed  to  and  fro  in  the  villages,  or  in  the  circumstance 
of  a  Home  Department  collecting  money  through  goA^ernors 
and  police  sergeants,  —  in  one  word,  as  long  as  violence  is 
maintained  by  the  bayonet,  there  will  be  no  distribution  of 
wealth,  but  it  will  all  be  accumulated  among  the  oppressors. 
As  a  striking  illustration  of  the  truth  of  this  assertion,  the 
project  of  Mr.  George  as  to  the  nationalization  of  the  land 
ma}'  serve  us. 

Mr.  George  proposes  to  recognize  all  the  land  as  the  prop- 
erty of  the  state,  and  therefore  to  substitute  the  land-rent 
foi-  all  the  taxes  direct  and  indirect.  That  is,  that  ever}'  one 
who  utilizes  the  land  would  have  to  pa}'  to  the  state  the 
value  of  its  rent. 

What  would  be  the  result?     The  land  slavery  would  be 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Til 

quite  abolished  within  the  limits  of  the  sta 
would  belong  to  the  state,  —  English  land  to  i- 
can  to  America,  and  so  on  ;  so  that  there  won. 
which  would  be  determined  by  the  quantity  of  . 
It  might  be  that  the  condition  of  some  labore. 
prove  ;  but  лу1п1е  a  forcible  demand  for  rent  rei 
slavery  Avould  remain  too. 

The  laborer,  after  a  bad  harvest,  being  unable  te 
rent  required  from  him,  in  order  not  to  lose  every  th. 
to  retain  the  land,  would  be  obliged  to  enslave  himself 
one  who  happened  to  have  the  money.     If  a  pail  leaks, 
must  be  a  hole.     On  looking  to  the  bottom  of  the  pail 
may  imagine  that  water  runs  from  different  holes  ;  but  hi 
ever  man}'  imaginary  holes  we  tried  to  stop. from  without,  t 
water  would  not  cease  running. 

In  order  to  put  a  stop  to  this  leakage,  we  must  find  the 
place  out  of  which  water  runs,  and  stop  it  from  the  inside. 
The  same  holds  good  with  the  proposed  means  of  stopping 
the  irregular  distribution  of  wealth,  —  the  holes  through 
which  tlie  wealth  runs  away  from  the  people. 

It  is  said,  Organize  workingmen's  corporations,  make 
capital  social  property,  make  land  social  property.  All  this 
is  only  the  mere  stopping  from  the  outside  of  those  holes 
from  which  we  fanc}'  water  runs  away.  In  order  to  stop 
wealth  going  from  the  hands  of  workingmen  to  those  of 
non-workingmen,  it  is  necessary^  to  try  to  find  out  from  in- 
side the  hole  through  which  this  leakage  takes  place.  This 
hole  is  the  violence  of  armed  over  unarmed  men.  the  violence 
of  ti'oops,  by  means  of  which  men  are  carried  away  from 
their  labor,  and  the  land,  and  the  productions  of  labor,  taken 
away  from  men. 

As  long  as  there  is  an  armed  man  with  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  his  riglit  to  kill  another  man.  wiioever  he  may  be,  so 
long  will  there  also  exist  an  unjust  distribution  of  wealth, — 
in  other  words,  slavery. 

XXII. 

I  AiAv.vYS  wonder  at  the  often  repeated  words,  "  Yes,  it  is 
all  true  in  theory,  but  how  is  it  in  practice?"  As  though 
lliis  theor}'  was  a  mere  collection  of  good  words,  needful  for 
conversation,  and  not  as  though  all  pi'acticc  —  that  is,  all 
activity  of  life —  was  inevitably  based  upon  it. 


Т  MUST    WE  ВО    THEN? 

,'0.  been  in  the  world  an  immense  number  of 

if  men  employed  such  wonderful  reasoning. 

at  theory  is  what  a  man  tliinks  about  a  thing, 

is  what  he  does.     How  can  it  be  tliat  a  man 

that  he  ought  to  act  in  one  way,  and  then  do 

/erse?     If  the  theory  of  baking  bread  consists  in 

a"st  of  all  one  must  knead  the  dough,  then  put  it 

,  then  any  one  knowing  tliis  would  be  a  fool  to  do 

se.     But  with  us  it  has  come  into  fashion  to  say, 

ais  is  very  well  in  theory,  but  how  would  it  be  in 

:e?" 

all  that  has  occupied  me,  practice  has  unavoidably  fol- 

d  theory,  not  mainly  in  order  to  justify  it,  but  because 

aimot  help  doing  so :  if  I  have  understood  the  affair  upon 

.lich  I  have  med'itated,  I  cannot  help  doing  it  in  the  way 

л  which  I  have  understood  it, 

I  wished  to  help  the  needy,  only  because  I  had  money  to 
spare  ;  and  I  shared  the  general  superstition  that  mone}'  is 
the  representative  of  labor,  and,  generally  speaking,  some- 
thing lawful  and  good  in  itself.  But,  having  ])egun  to  give 
this  monev  away,  I  saw  that  I  was  only  drawing  bills  of 
exchange  collected  by  me  from  poor  people ;  that  I  was 
doing  the  very  thing  the  old  landlords  used  to  do  in  com- 
pelling some  of  their  serfs  to  work  for  other  serfs. 

I  saw  that  every  use  of  moue}',  whether  bu^-ing  any 
thing  with  it,  or  giving  it  away  gratis,  is  a  drawing  of  bills 
of  exchange  on  poor  people,  or  passing  them  to  others  to 
be  drawn  by  them.  And  therefore  I  clearh'  understood 
the  foolishness  of  what  I  was  doing,  in  helping  the  poor 
by  exacting  mone}'  from  them. 

I  saw  that  monej'  in  itself  was  not  onl}^  not  a  good  thing, 
but  obviously  an  evil  one,  depriving  men  of  their  chief 
good,  labor,  and  the  utilizing  of  their  labor,  and  that  this 
very  good  I  cannot  give  to  any  one,  because  I  am  myself 
deprived  of  it :  I  have  neither  labor,  nor  the  happiness  of 
utilizing  my  lq,bor. 

It  might  be  asked  by  some,  "  AVhat  is  there  so  peculiaily 
important  in  abstractly  discussing  the  meaning  of  money?  " 
But  this  argument  which  I  have  opened,  is  not  merely  for 
the  sake  of  discussion,  but  in  order  to  And  an  answer  to 
the  vital  question,  which  had  caused  me  so  much  suffering, 
and  on  which  my  life  depended,  in  order  to  discover  what 
1  was  to  do. 


WHAT  MUST    ]VE  BO    1 

As  soon  as  I  understood  what  riches 
is,  at  once  it  became  plain  and  unquestioi 
all  men  must  do.     In  reality  1  merely  came  l 
have  long  known,  —  that  truth  which  has  be 
to  men  from    the  oldest   times,  by  Buddha, 
Laotse,  and  by  Socrates,  and  particularly  cleai\ 
tivel}^    by   Jesus    Christ,    and    his    predecessor 
Baptist. 

John   the  Baptist,  in  answer  to  men's  question 
sliall    we   do    then?"    answeied   plainly   and   briefly 
that  hath  two  coats,  let  him  impart  to  him  that  hatli 
and  he    that   hath    meat,  let   him  do   likewise"    (Lu 
10,  11). 

The   same    thing,   and   with    still   greater  clearness,  . 
Christ,  —  blessing  the  poor,  and  uttering  woes  on  the  y'k 
He  said  that  no  man  can  serve  God  and  mammon. 

He  forbade  his  disciples  not  only  to  take  mone}',  bu 
also  to  have  two  coats.  He  said  to  the  rich  young  man' 
that  he  could  .not  enter  into  the  kingdom  of  God,  because 
he  was  rich,  and  that  it  is  easier  for  a  camel  to  go  through 
the  needle's  eye,  than  for  a  rich  man  to  enter  the  kingdom 
of  (^od. 

He  said  that  he  who  would  not  1еал^е  every  thing  —  his 
houses  and  children  and  his  fields  —  in  order  to  folloлv  him, 
was  not  his  disciple.  He  spoke  a  parable  about  a  rich  man 
who  had  done  nothing  wrong  (like  our  own  rich  people), 
but  merely  dressed  well,  ate  and  drank  well,  yet  by  this 
lost  his  own  soul ;  and  about  a  beggar  named  Lazarus, 
who  had  done  nothing  good,  and  who  had  saved  his  soul 
by  his  beggar's  life. 

This  truth  had  long  been  known  to  me  ;  l)ut  the  false 
teaching  of  the  world  had  so  cunningly  hidden  it,  that  it 
became  a  theory  in  the  sense  which  men  like  to  attach  to 
this  word,  —  that  is,  a  pure  abstraction.  But  as  soon  as  I 
succeeded  in  pulling  down  in  my  consciousness  the  sophistry 
of  the  world's  teaching,  then  theor}'  became  one  with 
practice,  and  the  reality  of  ni}'  life  became  its  unavoidable 
result. 

I  understood  that  man,  besides  living  for  his  own  good, 
must  work  for  the  good  of  othei-s  ;  that  if  we  were  to  (b\aw 
our  c()m[)arison  from  the  world  of  animals,  as  some  men 
are  so  loud  of  doing  in  justifying  л-iolence  and  contest  by 
the  law  of   the  struggle  for  existence,   we  must  take  this 


.'  MUST    WE  DO    rilEN? 

I'ora  the  lives  of  social  animals  like  bees ; 

.n,  saying  nothing  of  his  love  to  iiis  ueigh- 

j    upon    hiui,   as   well    by    reason    as    1)V  his 

,   called  upon   to  serve   his  fellows  and  their 

^d    that  tills    is    the  natural   law   of    man,  ])y 

jich  he  can  alone  fulfil  his  calling,  and  therefore 

I    understood    that  this    law  has  been,   and  is 

iated  by  the  fact  that  men  by  violence  (as  robber- 

ee  themselves  from  labor,  and  utilize  the  labor  of 

using    this  labor  not   for  the  common  purpose,   but 

3.  personal  satisfaction  of   their  constantly  increasing 

and   also,   like  robber-bees,  they    perish  thereby.     I 

jrstood   that   the   misfortune  of   men   comes   from    the 

/ery  in  which  some  men  are  kept  by  others.     I  understood 

at  this  slavery  is  brought  about  in  our  days  by  the  violence 

f  military  force,  by  the  approi)riation  of  laud,  and  by  the 

exaction  of  money. 

And,  having  understood  the  meaning  of  all  these  three 
instruments  of  modern  slaver}',  I  could  not  help  desiring  to 
free  myself  from  any  share  in  it. 

AVhen  I  was  a  landlord,  possessing  serfs,  and  came  to 
understand  the  immoralit}'  of  such  a  position,  T,  along  with 
other  men  who  had  understood  the  same  thing,  tried  to  free 
myself  from  it.  Failing  to  do  so,  I  entloavored  to  assert  my 
claims  as  a  slave-owner  as  little  as  possible,  and  to  live,  and 
to  let  other  people  live,  as  if  such  claims  did  not  exist,  and 
at  the  same  time,bv'  trying  every  means,  to  suggest  to  other 
slave-owners  the  unlawfulness  and  inhumanit}-  of  their  im- 
aginary rights. 

I  cannot  help  doing  the  same  now  with  reference  to  exist- 
ent slavery  ;  that  is,  I  try  as  little  as  possible  to  assert  my 
claims  while  I  am  unable  to  free  myself  from  such  power 
of  claim  which  gives  me  land-owaiership  and  mone}',  raised 
by  the  violence  of  military  force,  and  at  the  same  time  by 
all  means  in  m}'  power  to  try  to  suggest  to  other  men  the 
unlawfulness  and  inhumanity  of  these  imaginary  rights. 

The  share  in  enslaving  men,  from  the  stand-point  of  a 
slave-owner,  consists  in  utilizing  the  labor  of  others  :  it  is 
quite  the  same,  whetiier  the  enslaving  is  based  upon  a  claim 
to  the  person  of  the  slave,  or  upon  the  possession  of  land 
or  money.  And  therefore,  if  a  man  really  docs  not  like 
slavery,  and  does  not  desire  to  be  a  partaker  in  it,  the  first 


WUAT  MUST    WE  BO    THEN?  119 

thing  which  he  must  do  is  this  :  neither  utilize  men's  labor 
b}'  serving  the  government,  nor  possess  land  or  mone}'. 

The  refusal  of  all  the  means  in  use  for  utilizing  another's 
labor  will  unavoidably  bring  such  a  man  to  the  necessity,  on 
the  one  hand,  of  lessening  his  wants,  and,  on  the  other,  of 
doing  liimself  what  formerly  was  done  for  him  b}'  others. 
And  this  so  simple  inference  at  once  puts  an  end  to  all  three 
causes  Avhich  prevent  our  heli)ing  the  poor,  which  I  discov- 
ered in  seeking  tlie  cause  of  my  non-success. 

The  first  cause  was  the  accumulation  of  people  in  towns, 
and  the  absorption  there  of  the  productions  of  tlie  country. 

All  that  a  man  needs  is  not  to  desire  to  utilize  another's 
labor  by  serving  the  government,  possessing  land  and  money, 
and  then,  according  to  his  strength  and  ability,  to  satisfy 
unaided  his  own  wants,  and  the  idea  of  leaving  his  village 
would  never  enter  his  mind,  because  in  the  countr}'  it  is  easier 
for  him  personally  to  satisfy  his  wants,  while  in  a  town  every 
thing  is  the  production  of  the  labor  of  others;  in  the  coun- 
try a  man  will  always  be  able  to  heli)  the  needy,  and  will  not 
experience  that  feeling  of  being  useless,  whicli  I  felt  in  the 
town  when  I  wanted  to  help  men,  not  with  my  own,  but  with 
other  men's  labors. 

The  second  cause  was  the  estrangement  between  the  poor 
and  the  rich.  A  man  need  only  not  desire  to  utilize  other 
men's  labor  by  serving  the  government,  possessing  land  ami 
money,  and  he  would  be  compelled  himself  to  satisfy  his 
wants,  and  at  once  involuntarily  that  barrier  would  be  pushed 
down  which  separates  him  from  the  working-people,  and  he 
would  be  one  with  the  people,  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  them,  and  seeing  the  possibility  of  helping  them. 

The  third  cause  was  shame,  based  upon  the  consciousness 
of  the  immorality  of  possessing  money  with  which  I  wanted 
to  help  others.  A  mnn  needs  only  not  to  desire  to  utilize 
another  man's  labor  by  serving  the  government,  possessing 
land  and  money,  and  he  will  never  have  that  superfluous 
'■'•  fool's  money,"  the  fact  of  possessing  which  made  those 
who  wanted  money  ask  me  for  pecuniary  assistance,  which  I 
was  not  a))le  to  satisf}^,  and  called  forth  in  me  the  conscious- 
ness of  my  unrighteousness. 


120  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 


XXIII. 

I  SAAV  that  the  cause  of  the  sufferings  and  dcpraA-ity  of 
men  lies  in  the  fact  that  some  men  are  in  bomUige  to  others  ; 
and  therefore  I  came  to  tlie  obvious  conclusion,  that  if  I  want 
to  help  men,  I  have  first  of  all  to  leave  off  causing  th(jse  very 
misftjrtunes  which  I  want  to  remedy,  —  iu  other  words,  I 
must  not  share  in  the  enslaving  of  men. 

I  was  led  to  the  enslaving  of  men  by  the  circumstance 
that  from  my  infancy  I  had  been  accustomed  not  io  work, 
but  to  utilize  the  labor  of  others,  and  I  have  been  living  in 
a  society  which  is  not  only  accustomed  to  this  slavery,  but 
justifies  it  by  all  kinds  of  sophistry',  clever  and  foolish. 

I  came  to  the  following  simple  conclueion.  that,  in  order 
to  avoid  causing  the  sutTcrings  and  depravity  of  men,  I  ought 
to  make  other  men  work  for  me  as  little  as  possible,  and  to 
work  nn'self  as  much  as  possible. 

It  was  by  this  roundabout  way  that  I  arrived  at  the  inevi- 
table conclusion  to  which  the  C'liinese  arrived  some  thousand 
years  ago,  and  which  they  exi)ress  thus:  '"  If  there  is  one 
idle  man,  there  must  be  another  wlio  is  starving." 

I  came  to  that  sim[)le  and  natural  conclusion,  that  if  I  pity 
the  exhausted  horse  on  whose  back  I  ride,  the  first  thing  for. 
me  to  do,  if  I  really  pity  him,  is  to  get  off  him,  and  walk. 
This  answer,  which  gives  such  complete  satisfaction  to  the 
moral  sense,  has  been  always  before  my  eyes,  as  it  is  before 
the  eyes  of  every  one,  but  we  do  not  all  see  it. 

In  seeking  to  heal  our  social  diseases  we  look  everywhere,  — 
in  the  governmental,  anti-governmental,  scientific,  and  phil- 
anthropic superstitions,  —  and  yet  we  do  not  see  that  which 
meets  the  eyes  of  every  one.  We  fill  our  drains  with  filtij, 
and  require  other  men  to  clean  them,  and  pretend  to  be  veiy 
sorry  for  them,  and  we  want  to  ease  their  work,  and  are  in- 
venting all  sorts  of  devices  except  one,  the  simplest ;  namely, 
that  we  should  ourselves  remove  our  slops  so  long  as  we  find 
it  necessary  to  produce  them  in  our  rooms. 

For  One  who  really  suffers  from  the  sufferings  of  other 
men  surrounding  him,  there  exists  a  most  clear,  simple,  and 
easy  means,  the  only  one  sufficient  t^)  heal  this  evil,  and  to 
confer  a  sense  of  the  lawfulness  of  one's  life.  This  means  is 
that  wliich  Jolin  the  Ba[)tist  recommended  when  he  answered 
the   queslion,   "What  shall  we  do  then?"  and  whi^-h  was 


WHAT  ilUST    WE  no    THEN?  121 

confirmed  b}'  Christ,  not  to  have  more  than  one  coat,  and 
not  to  possess  money, — -that  is,  not  to  profit  by  another  man's 
hibor  ;  and  in  order  not  to  utihze  another's  labor,  we  must  do 
witli  our  own  liands  all  that  we  can  do.  This  is  so  plain  and 
simple  !  But  this  is  plain  and  simple  and  clear,  only  when 
our  wants  are  also  i)lain,  and  when  we  ourselves  are  still 
sound,  and  not  corrui)ted  to  the  backbone  l)y  idleness  and 
laziness. 

I  live  in  a  village,  lie  by  the  stove,  and  tell  my  neighbor, 
who  is  my  debtor,  to  light  it.  It  is  obvious  that  I  am  lazy, 
take  my  neighbor  away  from  his  own  work,  and  1  at  last  feel 
ashamed  of  it ;  and  besides,  it  grows  dull  for  me  to  be  alwnys 
lying  down  when  my  muscles  are  strong,  and  accustomed  to 
work,  and  I  go  to  fetch  the  wood  myself. 

But  slavery  of  all  kinds  has  been  going  on  so  long,  so 
many  artificial  wants  have  grown  about  it,  so  many  jieofjle 
with  different  degrees  of  familiarity  with  these  wants  are  in- 
ti'rwoven  one  with  anothcM',  through  so  nmny  generations 
men  have  been  spoiled  and  made  effeminate,  such  compli- 
cated temi)tations  and  justifications  of  luxui-y  and  idleness 
have  been  invented  by  men,  that  for  one  who  staiids  on  the 
top  of  the  pyramid  of  idle  men,  it  is  not  at  all  so  easy  to 
understand  his  sin  as  it  is  for  the  peasant,  who  compels  his 
neighbor  to  light  his  stove. 

Men  who  stand  at  the  toj)  find  it  most  diilicult  to  under- 
stand what  is  required  of  them.  They  become  giddy  from 
the  height  of  the  structure  of  lies  on  which  they  stand  when 
they  look  at  that  spot  on  the  earth  to  Aviiich  they  must  de- 
scend, in  order  to  begin  to  live,  not  righteously,  but  only  not 
quite  inhumanl}' ;  and  that  is  why  this  plain  and  clear  truth 
appears  to  these  men  so  sti'ange. 

A  man  who  employ's  ten  servants  in  liver}',  coachmen  and 
cooks,  who  has  pictures  and  pianos,  must  certainly  regard 
as  strange  and  even  ridiculous  the  simple  preliminary  duty 
of,  I  do  not  say  a  good  man,  Itut  of  eveiy  man  who  is  not  a 
beast,  to  hew  that  wood  with  which  his  food  is  cooked  and 
by  which  he  is  warmed  ;  to  clean  those;  boots  in  which  he 
carelessly  stepped  into  the  mud  ;  to  l)ring  that  water  whh 
which  he  keeps  himself  clean,  and  to  carry  away  those  sloi)S 
in  which  he  has  washed  himself. 

But  besides  the  estrangement  of  men  from  the  truth,  there 
is  another  cause  wiiich  hinders  men  from  seeing  tiie  duty  of 
doing  the  most  simple  and    natural  physical  work  ;  that  is 


122  WHAT  ЗШ8Т   WE  1)0   TUEN  f 

tlie  complicity  aiul  interweaving  of  the  conditions  in  which  a 
rich  niun  lives. 

This  morning  I  entered  the  corridor  in  Avhich  the  stoves  are 
heated.  A  peasant  was  heating  the  stove  which  Avarnied  my 
sou's  room.  I  entered  his  bedroom  :  he  was  asleep,  and  it 
was  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning.  The  excuse  was,  "To- 
day is  a  holiday  ;  uo  lessons."  A  stout  lad  of  eighteen  years 
of  age,  having  over-eaten  himself  the  previous  night,  is  sleep- 
ing until  eleven  o'clock  ;  and  a  peasant  of  his  age,  who  had 
already  that  morning  done  a  quantity  of  work,  was  now  light- 
ing the  tenth  stove.  "  It  would  be  better,  pei'haps,  if  the 
peasant  did  not  light  the  stove  to  warm  this  stout,  lazy  fel- 
low !  "  thought  I ;  but  I  remembered  at  once  that  this  stove 
also  wai'raed  the  room  of  our  housekeeper,  a  woman  of  forty 
years  of  age,  who  had  been  working  the  night  before  till 
three  o'clock  in  the  morning,  to  pre[)are  every  thing  for  the 
supper  which  m}'  son  ate  ;  and  then  she  put  away  the  dishes, 
and,  notwithstanding  this,  got  up  at  scA'en. 

She  cannot  heat  the  stove  herself :  she  has  no  time  for 
that.  The  peasant  is  heating  the  stove  for  her  too.  And 
under  her  name  ni}'  laz\-  fellow  was  being  warmed. 

True,  the  advantages  of  all  are  interwoven  ;  but  without 
much  consideration  the  conscience  of  each  will  say,  On  whose 
side  is  the  labor,  and  on  whose  the  idleness  ?  But  not  only 
does  conscience  tell  this,  the  account-book  also  tells  it :  the 
more  money  one  spends,  the  more  peo[)le  work.  The  less 
one  spends,  the  more  one  works  one's  self.  My  luxurious  life 
gives  means  of  living  to  others.  Where  should  my  old 
footman  go,  if  I  were  to  discharge  him  ?  What !  every  one 
must  do  ever}^  thing  for  himself?  Make  his  coat  as  well  as 
hew  his  wood?  And  how  about  division  of  labor?  And 
industry  and  social  undertakings?  And,  last  of  all,  come 
the  most  horrible  of  words,  —  civilization,  science,  art! 


XXIV. 

Last  INIarch  I  was  returning  home  late  in  the  CA'ening. 
On  turning  into  a  by-lane,  I  perceived  on  the  snow,  in  a 
distant  field,  some  black  shadows.  I  should  not  have  noticed 
this,  but  for  the  policeman, Avho  stood  at  the  end  of  the  lane, 
and  ciied  in  the  direction  of  the  shadows,  ''  \'asili,  why 
don't  you  come  along?  " 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO   THEN?  123 

"  She  won't  move,"  answered  a  voice  ;  and  thereupon  the 
shadows  came  towards  the  policeman.  I  stopped  and  aslved 
him,  — 

•'  ^Vhat  is  tlie  matter?" 

He  said,  "  We  have  got  some  girls  from  TJzhanoff's  lioiise, 
and  are  taking  them  to  the  police-station  ;  and  one  of  them 
lags  behind,  and  won't  come  along." 

A  night-watchman  in  sheepskin  coat  appeared  now,  leading 
a  girl,  who  slouched  along,  while  he  pi'oddcd  her  from 
behind.  I,  the  watchman  and  the  policeman,  were  wearing 
winter-coats  :  she  alone  had  none,  having  only  her  gown  on. 
Ill  the  dark,  I  could  distinguish  only  a  brown  dress,  and 
a  kerchief  round  her  head  and  neck.  She  was  short,  like 
most  starvelings,  and  had  a  broad,  clumsy  figure. 

'■  We  aren't  going  to  stay  hei'e  all  night  for  you,  yon  hag  ! 
Get  on,  or  I'll  give  it  you  !  "  shouted  the  policeman.  He 
was  evidently  fatigued,  and  tired  of  her.  .She  walked  some 
paces,  and  stopped  again. 

The  old  watchman,  a  good-natured  man  (I  knew  him), 
pulled  her  by  the  hand.  "  I'll  wake  you  up  !  come  along  !  " 
said  he,  pretending  to  be  angry.  She  staggered,  and  began 
to  speak,  with  a  creaking,  hoarse  voice,  •'  Let  me  be ; 
don't  you  push.     I'll  get  on  myself." 

''  You'll  be  frozen  to  death,"  he  returned. 

"  A  girl  like  me  won't  be  frozen  :  I've  lots  of  hot  blood." 

She  meant  it  as  a  joke,  but  her  words  sounded  like  a  curse. 
By  a  lamp,  which  stood  not  far  from  the  gate  of  my  house, 
she  stopped  again,  leaned  back  against  the  paling,  and  began 
to  seek  for  something  among  her  petticoats  with  awkward, 
frozen  hands.  They  again  shouted  to  her;  but  she  only 
muttered,  and  continued  searching.  She  held  in  one  hand  a 
crumpled  cigarette,  and  matches  in  the  other,  I  remained 
behind  her :  I  was  ashamed  to  pass  by,  or  to  stay  and  look 
at  her.  But  I  made  up  my  mind,  and  came  up  to  her.  She 
leaned  with  her  shoulder  against  the  paling,  and  vainly-  tried 
to  light  a  match  on  it. 

I  looked  narrowly  at  her  face.  She  was  indeed  a  starveling, 
and  appeared  to  me  to  be  a  woman  of  about  thirty.  Пег 
complexion  was  dirty  ;  her  eyes  small,  dim,  and  bleared  with 
drinking ;  she  had  a  squat  nose ;  her  lips  were  wry  and 
slavering,  with  downcast  angles  ;  from  under  her  kerchief 
fell  a  tuft  of  dry  hair.  Her  figure  was  long  and  flat ;  her 
arms  and  leo's  short. 


124  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

I  stopped  in  front  of  her.  She  looked  at  me  and  smiled, 
as  if  she  knew  all  that  I  was  tliiukin;^-  aijoiit.  I  felt  that  I 
oui>iit  to  say  something  to  her.  1  waiilc'd  to  show  hex'  that 
I  pitied  her. 

*■' Have  YOU  parents?"  I  asked.  She  hui^lied  lioavseiy, 
then  suddenly  stoi)[)ed,  and,  lifting  her  l)rows,  began  to  look 
at  me  steadfastly. 

"  Have  you  |)arents?  "  I  repeated. 

She  smiled  with  a  grimace  which  seemed  to  say,  "  What 
a  question  for  him  to  put !  " 

"  I  have  a  mother,"  she  said  at  last ;  "  but  what's  that  to 
you?" 

"  And  how  old  are  you?  " 

"  I  am  over  fifteen,"  said  she,  at  once  answering  a  ques- 
tion she  was  accustomed  to  hear. 

'■  Come,  come  !  go  on  ;  we  shall  all  l)e  frozen  for  yon  ;  the 
deuce  take  you  !  "  shouted  the  policeman  ;  and  she  edged  off 
from  the  paling,  and  staggered  on  along  the  lane  to  the  police- 
station  :  and  1  turned  to  the  gate,  and  entered  my  house,  and 
asked  whether  m}'  daughters  were  at  home.  I  was  told  that 
they  had  been  to  an  evening  party,  had  enjoyed  themselves 
mucli,  and  now  were  asleep. 

The  next  morning  I  was  about  to  go  to  the  police-station 
to  inquire  what  had  become  of  this  unhai)py  girl ;  and  I  was 
ready  to  start  early  enough,  when  one  of  those  unfortunate 
men  called,  who  from  weakness  have  dropped  out  of  the 
gentlemanly  line  of  life  to  which  they  have  been  accustomed, 
and  Avlio  rise  and  fall  b}^  turns.  1  had  been  acquainted  with 
him  three  years.  During  this  time  he  had  several  times  sold 
ever\'  thing  he  had, — even  his  clothes;  and,  having  just 
done  so  again,  he  passed  his  nights  temporarily  in  Rzhanoff's 
house,  and  his  days  at  my  lodgings.  He  met  me  as  1  Avas 
going  out,  and,  without  listening  to  me,  began  at  once  to  tell 
me  what  had  happened  at  Rzhanoff's  house  the  night  before. 

He  began  to  relate  it,  j-et  had  not  got  through  one-half 
when,  all  of  a  sudden,  he,  an  old  man,  who  had  gone  through 
much  in  his  life,  began  to  sob,  and,  ceasing  to  speak, 
turned  his  face  awa}'  from  me.  This  was  what  he  related. 
I  ascertained  the  truth  of  his  story  on  the  spot,  where  1 
learned  some  new  particulars,  which  I  shall  relate  too. 

A  v/asherwoman  thirty  years  of  age,  fair,  quiet,  good-look- 
ing, but  delicate,  passed  her  nights  in  that  night-lodging  on 
the  ground-floor  in   No.  32,  where  my  friend  slept  among 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  125 

various  shiftino-  night-lodgers,  men  and  women,  who  for  five 
kopeks  sk'i)t  with  euch  other. 

The  hiudhidy  at  this  lodging  was  the  mistress  of  a  boat- 
man. In  smiuner  her  lover  kept  a  boat ;  and  in  winter  they 
earned  their  living  by  letting  hxlgings  to  night-lodgers  at 
three  kopeks  without  a  pillow,  and  at  five  kopeks  with  one. 

The  w'asherwoman  had  been  living  here  some  months, 
and  was  a  quiet  woman  ;  but  lately  the}'  began  to  object  to 
her  because  she  coughed,  and  prevented  the  other  lodgers 
from  sleeping.  An  old  woman  in  particular,  eight}'  years 
old,  half  silly,  and  also  a  permanent  inmate  of  this  lodging, 
began  to  (lislilce  the  washerwoman,  and  kept  annoying  her, 
because  she  disturbed  her  sleep  ;  for  all  night  she  coughed  like 
a  sheep. 

The  waslierwoman  said  nothing.  She  owed  for  rent,  and 
felt  herself  guilty,  and  was  therefore  compelled  to  endure.  She 
began  to  work  less  and  less,  for  her  sti'ength  failed  her ;  and 
that  was  why  she  was  unable  to  pay  her  rent.  She  had  not 
been  to  work  at  all  the  whole  of  tlie  last  week  ;  and  she  had 
been  making  the  lives  of  all.  and  particularly  of  the  old 
woman,  miserable  by  her  cough. 

Four  days  ago  the  landlady  gave  her  notice  to  leave.  She 
already'  owed  sixty  kopeks,  and  could  not  pay  them,  and  there 
was  no  hope  of  doing  so  ;  and  other  lodgers  complained  of  her 
cough. 

When  the  landlad\'  gave  the  washerwoman  notice,  and  told 
her  she  must  go  away  if  siie  did  not  pay  tlie  rent,  the  old 
woman  was  glad,  and  pushed  her  out  into  the  yard.  The 
washei'woman  went  away,  but  came  back  again  in  an  hour, 
and  tlie  landlady  had  not  the  heart  to  send  lier  away  again. 
.  .  .  During  the  second  and  the  third  day  the  landlady  left 
her  there.  '' Where  shall  I  go?"  she  kei)t  saying.  On  tiie 
third  day,  the  landlad3''s  lover,  a  Moscow  man,  who  knew 
all  the  rules  and  regulations,  went  for  a  policeman.  The 
policeman,  with  a  sword  and  a  pistol  slung  on  a  red  cord, 
came  into  the  lodging,  and  quietly  and  politely  turned  the 
washerwoman  out  into  the  street. 

It  was  a  brigiit,  sunny,  but  frosty  day  in  IMai'ch.  The 
melting  snow  ran  down  in  streams,  the  house-porters  were 
breaking  the  ice.  Tlie  hackney  sletlges  l)umped  on  the  ice- 
glazed  snow,  and  creaked  over  the  stones.  The  waslier- 
woman went  up  the  hill  on  the  sunny  side,  got  to  the  church, 
and  sat  down  in  the  sun  at  the  ciiurch-[)uieh.      But  when  the 


12G  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

sun  began  to  go  down  behind  the  houses,  and  the  pools  of 
watL'i-  began  to  be  covered  over  with  a  thin  sheet  of  ice,  the 
washerwoman  felt  chilly  and  teri-ilied.  She  got  up  and 
slowly  walked  on.  .  .  .  Where?  Home,  —  to  the  only  house 
in  wliich  she  had  been  living  latel}'. 

While  she  was  walking  there,  several  times  resting  lierself, 
it  began  to  get  dark.  She  approached  the  gate,  turned  into 
it,  her  foot  slipped,  she  gave  a  shriek,  and  fell  down. 

One  man  passed  b}',  then  another.  "  She  mu>t  be  drunk." 
they  thought.  Anothei"  man  passed,  and  stumbled  up  against 
her,  and  said  to  the  house-[)orter,  '■'■  Some  tipsy  won)an  is 
lying  at  the  gate.  I  very  nearly  broke  my  ueck  over  her. 
Won't  you  take  her  away?  " 

The  house-porter  came.  The  washerwoman  was  dead. 
Such  was  what  my  friend  related  to  me. 

The  reader  will  perhaps  fancy  I  have  picked  out  particular 
cases  in  the  prostitute  of  lifteen  years  of  age  and  the  stor}' 
of  this  washerwoman  ;  but  let  him  not  think  so :  this  really 
hap[)ened  in  one  and  the  same  night.  I  do  not  exactly  re- 
member the  date,  only  it  was  in  March,  18<S4:, 

Having  heard  my  friend's  story,  I  went  to  the  police-sta- 
tion, intending  from  there  to  go  to  Kzhanoff's  house  to  learn 
all  the  pai'tieulars  of  the  washerwoman's  stor}'. 

The  weather  was  fine  and  sunny  ;  and  again  under  the  ice 
of  the  previous  night,  in  the  shade,  3'ou  could  see  the  water 
running ;  and  in  the  sun,  in  the  square,  every  thing  was  melt- 
ing fast.  The  trees  of  the  garden  appeared  blue  from  over 
the  river ;  the  sparrows  that  were  reddisli  in  Avinter,  and  un- 
noticed then,  now  attracted  people's  attention  by  their  mer- 
riness  ;  men  also  tried  to  be  merry,  but  they  all  had  too  many 
cares.  The  bells  of  the  churches  sounded  ;  and  blending  with 
them  from  the  barracks  were  heard  sounds  of  shooting,  — the 
hiss  of  the  rifle-balls,  and  the  crack  when  they  struck  the 
target. 

I  entered  the  police-station.  There  some  armed  men  — 
policemen  —  led  me  to  their  chief.  He,  also  armed  with  a 
sword,  sabre,  and  pistol,  was  bus}'  giving  some  orders  al)out 
a  ragged,  trembling  old  man  who  was  standing  before  him, 
and  from  weakness  could  not'clearly  answer  what  was  asked 
of  him.  Having  done  with  tlie  old  man.  he  turned  to  me.  I 
inquiied  about  the  girl  of  last  night.  He  first  listened  to  me 
attentive!}',  then  he  smiled,  not  only  because  I  did  not  know 
why  they  луеге  taken  to  the  police-station,  but  more  particu- 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  127 

larly  at  my  astonishment  at  her  youth.  "Goodness!  there 
are  some  of  twelve,  thirteen,  and  fourteen  years  of  age 
often,"  said  he,  in  a  lively  tone. 

To  my  question  al)out  my  friend  of  yesterday,  he  told  me 
that  she  had  probably  been  already  sent  to  the  committee  (if 
I  understood  him  right).  To  my  question  where  such  passed 
the  night,  he  gave  a  vague  answer.  The  one  about  whom 
1  spoke,  he  did  not  remember.  There  were  so  many  of  them 
every  day. 

At  Kzhanoff's  house,  in  No.  32,  I  already  found  the  clerk 
reading  prayers  over  the  dead  laundry- woman.  She  had 
been  brought  in  and  laid  on  her  former  pallet ;  and  the 
lodgers,  all  starvelings  themselves,  contributed  money  for 
the  prayers,  the  coffin,  and  the  shroud;  the  old  woman  had 
dressed  her,  and  laid  her  out.  The  clerk  was  reading 
something  in  the  dark  ;  a  woman  in  a  cloak  stood  holding 
a  wax  taper;  and  with  a  similar  wax  taper  stood  a  man 
(a  gentleman,  it  is  fair  to  state) ,  in  a  nice  great-coat,  trimmed 
with  an  Astrachan  collar,  in  bright  goloshes,  and  he  had 
on  a  starched  shirt.  That  was  her  brother.  He  had  been 
hunted  up. 

I  passed  by  the  dead  to  the  landlady's  room,  in  order  to 
ask  her  all  the  particulars.  She  was  afraid  of  my  questions, 
—  afraid  probal)ly  of  being  charged  with  something;  but  by 
and  by  she  grew  talkative,  and  told  me  ail.  On  passing  [)y 
again,  I  looked  at  the  dead  l)ody.  All  the  dead  are  beauti- 
ful ;  but  this  one  was  particularh'  so,  and  touching  in  her 
codin,  with  her  clear,  pale  face,  with  closed,  swollen  ej'es, 
sunken  cheeks,  and  fair,  soft  hair  over  her  high  forehead  ; 
her  face  looked  wear}',  but  kind,  and  not  sad  at  all,  l)ut 
rather  astonished.  And  indeed,  if  the  living  do  not  see,  the 
dead  may  well  be  astonished. 

On  the  da}'  1  wrote  this,  there  was  a  great  ball  in  Moscow. 
On  the  same  night  I  left  home  after  eight  o'clock.  1  live  in 
a  locality  surrounded  by  factories  ;  and  1  left  home  after  the 
factory  whistle  had  sounded,  and  when,  after  a  week  of  in- 
cessant work,  people  were  freed  for  their  holiday.  Factory- 
men  passed  by  me,  and  I  by  tliem,  all  turning  their  steps  to 
the  pul)lic-houses  and  inns.  iVIany  were  already  tiiJS}' :  many 
more  were  with  women. 

Every  mf)niing  at  five  I  hear  each  of  the  whist k's.  which 
means  that  the  lalior  of  women,  childicn.  and  oUl  people  has 
begun.     At  eight  o'clock  another  whistle,  — this  means  half 


128  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

an  hour's  rest ;  at  twelve  the  third  whistle,  —  this  means  an 
hour  for  dinner.  At  eight  o'clock  the  fourth  whistle,  indi- 
cating cessation  from  work.  By  a  strange  coincidence,  all 
the  tiu'ee  factories  in  my  neighborhood  produce  onl}^  the 
articles  necessary  for  balls. 

In  one  factory,  —  the  one  nearest  to  me,  —  they  make 
nothing  but  stockings  ;  in  the  other  opposite,  silk  stuffs  ;  in 
the  tliird,  perfumes  and  pomades. 

Que  may,  on  hearing  these  whistles,  attach  to  them  no  other 
meaning  than  that  of  the  indication  of  time.  ''There,  the 
whistle  has  sounded  :   it  is  time  to  go  out  for  a  walk." 

But  one  may  associate  with  them  also  the  meaning  they  in 
reality  have,  —  that  at  the  first  Avhistle  at  five  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  men  and  women,  who  have  slept  side  by  side  in  a 
damp  cellar,  get  up  in  the  dark,  and  hurry  aw-ay  into  the 
nois}^  building,  and  take  their  part  in  a  work  of  which  they 
see  neither  cessation  nor  utility  for  themselves,  and  work 
often  so  in  the  heat,  in  suffocating  exhalations,  with  very 
rare  intervals  of  rest,  for  one,  two,  or  three,  or  even  twelve 
and  more  hours.  They  fall  asleep,  and  get  up  again,  and 
again  do  this  work,  meaningless  for  themselves,  to  which 
they  are  compelled  exclusively  by  want.  And  so  it  goes  on 
from  one  week  to  another,  intemipted  onW  by  holidays. 

And  now  1  saw  these  working-people  freed  for  one  of 
these  holidays.  They  go  out  into  the  street :  everywhere 
there  are  inns,  pulilic-houses,  and  ga}'  women.  And  they,  in 
a  drunken  state,  pull  each  other  by  the  arms,  and  carr}'  along 
with  them  girls  like  the  one  whom  1  saw  conducted  to  the 
police-station  :  the}'  hire  hackney-coaches,  and  ride  and  walk 
from  one  inn  to  another,  and  abuse  each  other,  and  totter 
al)out,  and  sa}'  they  know  not  what. 

Formerly,  when  I  saw  the  factorv  people  knocking  about 
in  this  way,  I  used  to  turn  aside  with  disgust,  and  almost 
i-eproached  them  ;  but  since  I  hear  these  dail}'  whistles,  and 
know  what  they  mean,  I  am  onl}'^  astonished  that  all  these 
men  do  not  come  into  the  condition  of  utter  beggars.  Avith 
whom  Moscow  is  filled  ;  and  the  луотеп  into  the  position  of 
the  girl  whom  1  had  met  near  ni}'  house. 

Thus  I  walked  on,  looking  at  these  men,  observing  how 
they  went  about  the  streets  till  eleven  o'clock.  Then  their 
movements  became  quieter :  there  remained  here  and  there 
a  few  tipsy  people,  and  I  met  some  men  and  women  who 
were  being  conducted  to  the  police-station.     And  now,  from 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN  f  129 

every  side,  carriages  appeared,  all  going  in  one  direction.  On 
the  coach-box  sat  a  coachman,  sometimes  in  a  sheepskin 
coat;  and  a  footman,  —  a  dandy  with  a  cockade.  Well-fed 
trotters,  covered  with  cloth,  ran  at  the  rate  of  fifteen  miles  an 
hour:  in  the  carriages  sat  ladies  wrapped  in  shawls,  and 
taking  great  care  not  to  spoil  their  flowers  and  their  toilets. 
All,  beginning  with  the  harness  on  the  horses,  carriages, 
gutta-percha  wheels,  the  cloth  of  the  coachman's  coat,  down 
to  the  stockings,  shoes,  flowers,  velvet,  gloves,  scents,  —  all 
these  articles  have  been  made  by  those  men,  some  of  whom 
fell  asleep  on  their  own  pallets  in  their  mean  rooms,  some  in 
uight-houses  with  prostitutes,  and  others  iu  the  police- 
station. 

The  ball-goers  drive  past  these  men,  in  and  with  things 
made  by  them  ;  and  it  does  not  even  enter  into  their  minds 
that  there  could  possibW  be  any  connection  between  the  ball 
they  are  going  to  and  these  tipsy  people,  to  whom  their 
coachmen  shout  out  so  angrily.  With  quite  easy  minds,  and 
assurance  that  they  are  doing  nothing  wrong,  they  enjoy 
themselves  at  the  ball. 

Enjoy  themselves  ! 

From  eleven  o'clock  iu  the  evening  till  six  in  the  morning, 
in  the  very  depth  of  the  night,  while  with  emi)ty  stomachs 
men  are  lying  in  night-lodgings,  or  dying  as  the  washer- 
woman had  done ! 

The  enjoyment  of  the  ball  consists  iu  women  and  girls 
uncovering  their  bosoms,  putting  on  artificial  protuberances, 
and  altogether  getting  themselves  up  iu  a  \vay  that  no  girl  and 
no  woman  who  is  not  yet  depraved  would,  on  any  account, 
appear  before  men  ;  and  iu  this  half-naked  condition,  with 
uncovered  bosoms,  and  arms  bare  up  to  the  shoulders,  with 
diesses  puffed  behind  and  tight  round  the  hips,  iu  the  bright- 
est light,  women  and  girls,  whose  first  virtue  has  always  been 
modesty,  appear  among  strange  men,  w^ho  are  also  dressed 
in  indecently  tight-fitting  clothes,  and  with  them,  to  tlie 
sound  of  exciting  music,  embrace  each  other,  and  pivot  round 
and  round.  Old  women,  often  also  half  naked  like  the 
younger  ones,  are  sitting  looking  on.  and  eating  and  drink- 
ing :  the  old  men  do  the  same.  No  wonder  it  is  done  at 
night,  when  every  one  else  is  sleeping,  so  that  no  one  may 
see  it  I 

But  this  is  not  done  in  order  to  hide  it ;  there  is  nothing 
indeed    to  hide ;    all  is   very  nice  and  good ;    and   by   this 


130  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

enjoyment,  in  which  is  swallowed  np  the  painful  Labor  of 
thousands,  not  only  is  nobody  harmed,  but  by  this  vciy  tiling 
poor  people  are  fed  !  The  ball  goes  on  ver}'  merrily,  may 
be,  but  how  did  it  come  to  do  so?  When  we  see  in  society 
or  among  ourselves  one  who  has  not  eaten,  or  is  cold,  we  are 
ashamed  to  enjoy  ourselves,  and  cannot  begin  to  be  merry 
until  he  is  fed,  saying  nothing  of  the  fact  that  we  canno.^ 
imagine  that  there  are  such  people  who  can  enjoy  themselves 
by  means  of  any  thing  which  produces  the  sufferings  of 
others. 

We  are  disgusted,  and  we  do  not  understand  the  enjoy^- 
ment  of  naught}-  boj'S  who  have  squeezed  a  dog's  tail  into  a 
piece  of  split  Avood.  Ho^v  is  it,  then,  that  in  our  enjoy- 
ments we  become  blind,  and  do  not  see  that  cleft  in  which 
we  have  pinched  those  men  who  suffer  for  our  enjoyment? 

We  know  that  each  woman  at  this  ball  whose  dress  costs  a 
hundred  and  lifty  rubles  was  not  born  at  the  ball,  but  she 
has  lived  also  in  the  countiy,  has  seen  peasants,  knows  her 
own  nurse  and  maid,  whose  fathers  and  brothers  are  poor, 
for  whom  earning  one  hundred  and  fifty  rubles  to  build  a  cot- 
tage with  is  the  end  and  aim  of  a  long,  laborious  life  ;  she 
knows  this  ;  how  can  she,  then,  enjoy  herself,  knowing  tliat 
on  her  half-naked  body  she  is  wearing  the  cottage  which  is 
the  dream  of  her  housemaid's  brother? 

But  let  us  suppose  she  has  not  thought  about  this  :  she 
cannot  help  knowing  that  velvet  and  silk,  sweetmeats  and 
flowers,  and  laces  and  dresses,  do  not  grow  of  themselves,  but 
are  made  li}'  men. 

It  would  seem  she  could  not  help  knowing  that  men  make 
all  this,  and  nnder  what  circumstances,  and  why.  She  can- 
not help  knowing  that  her  dressmaker,  whom  she  has  been 
scolding  to-da}',  has  made  this  dress  not  at  all  out  of  love 
to  her,  tlierefore  she  cannot  help  knowing  that  all  these 
things  were  made  —  her  laces,  flowers,  and  velvet  —  from 
sheer  Avant. 

But  perhaps  she  is  so  blinded  that  she  does  not  think  of 
all  this.  Well,  but,  at  all  events,  she  could  not  help  know- 
ing that  five  people,  old,  respectable,  often  delicate  men  and 
women,  have  not  slept  all  night,  and  have  been  bus}-  on  her 
account.  This,  also,  she  could  not  help  knowing,  —  that  on 
this  night  there  were  twenty-eight  degrees  of  frost,  and  that 
her  coachman  —  an  old  man  —  was  sitting  in  this  frost  all 
night,  upon  his  coach-box. 


1177.1  г  MUST    WE  ВО    TUEN  ?  131 

Tf  these  young  women  and  girls,  from  the  h3'pnotic  influ- 
ence of  the  ball,  fail  lo  see  all  this,  we  cannot  jiulge  them. 
Poor  things !  they  consider  all  to  bo  good  which  is  pro- 
nounced so  by  their  elders.  How  do  these  elders  explain 
their  cruelty?  They,  indeed,  always  answer  in  the  same 
way  :  ''  I  compel  no  one  ;  wliat  I  Ьал^е,  I  have  bought ;  foot- 
men, chambermaids,  coachman,  I  hire.  There  is  no  harm 
in  engaging  and  in  buying.  I  compel  none  ;  I  hire ;  what 
wrong  is  there  in  that?  " 

Some  days  ago  I  called  on  a  friend.  Passing  through  the 
lirst  room,  I  wondered  at  seeing  at  a  table  two  females,  for  I 
know  my  acquaintance  was  a  bachelor.  A  skinny,  3"ellow, 
elderly-looking  woman,  about  thirty,  with  a  kerchief  thrown 
over  her  shoulder,  лvas  briskly  doing  something  over  the  table 
with  her  hands,  jerking  nervousl}*,  as  if  in  a  fit.  Opposite  to 
her  sat  a  little  girl,  who  was  also  doing  something,  jerking  in 
tlie  same  wa^'.  They  both  seemed  to  be  suffering  from  St. 
Vitus's  dance.  I  came  nearer  and  looked  closer  to  see  what 
they  were  about. 

They  glanced  up  at  me,  and  then  continued  their  work  as 
attentively  as  before. 

Before  them  were  spread  tobacco  and  cigarettes.  They 
were  making  cigarettes.  The  woman  rubbed  the  tobacco  fine 
between  the  palms  of  her  hands,  caught  it  up  by  a  machine, 
put  f)n  the  tubes,  and  threw  them  to  the  girl.  The  girl  folded 
the  papers,  put  them  over  the  cigarette,  threw  it  aside,  and 
took  up  another. 

All  this  was  performed  with  such  speed,  with  such  dex- 
terity, that  it  was  impossible  to  descril)e  it.  I  expressed  my 
wonder  at  their  quickness.  "  I  have  been  at  this  business 
fourteen  years,"  said  the  woman. 

"Is  it  hard  work?  " 

"  Yes  :  my  chest  aches,  and  the  air  is  choky  with  tobacco." 

But  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  have  said  so :  you  need 
only  have  looked  at  her  or  at  the  girl.  The  latter  had  been 
at  this  business  three  3'ears  ;  but  any  one  not  seeing  her  at 
tliis  work  would  have  said  that  she  had  a  strong  constitution, 
which  was  already  beginning  to  be  broken. 

M\'  acquaintance,  a  kind-hearted  man  of  lil)eral  views, 
hired  tiiese  women  to  make  him  cigarettes  at  two  rul)les  and 
a  half  a  thousand.  He  has  money,  and  he  pays  it  away  for 
this  work  :  wliat  harm  is  there  in  it? 

My  acquaintance  gets  up  at  twelve.     His  evenings,  from 


132  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

six  to  two,  he  spends  at  cards  or  at  the  piano ;  he  eats  and 
drinks  ;  other  people  do  all  the  work  for  him.  He  has  de- 
xiaed  for  himself  a  new  pleasure,  — smoking.  I  can  remem- 
ber when  he  began  to  smoke.  Here  are  a  woman  and  a  girl, 
who  scarcely  earn  their  living  by  transforming  themselves 
into  machines,  and  pass  all  their  lives  in  breathing  tol)acco, 
thus  ruining  their  lives.  He  has  money  which  he  hasnot 
earned,  and  he  prefers  playing  at  cards  to  making  eigaiettcs 
for  himself.  He  gives  these  women  money,  only  under  the 
condition  that  they  continue  to  live  as  miserably  as  the}'  have 
been  living,  in  making  cigarettes  for  him. 

1  am  fond  of  cleanliness  ;  and  I  give  money,  only  under  the 
condition  that  the  washerwoman  washes  my  shirts,  which  I 
change  twice  a  day  ;  and  the  washing  of  these  shirts  having 
taxed  the  utmost  strength  of  the  washerwoman,  she  has  died. 

What  is  wrong  in  tliis? 

Men  who  buy  and  hire  will  continue  doing  so  whether  I  do, 
or  do  not ;  they  will  force  other  people  to  make  velvets  and 
dainties,  and  will  buy  them  лvhether  I  do,  or  do  not ;  so  also 
they  will  hire  people  to  make  cigarettes  and  to  wash  shirts. 
Why  should  I,  then,  deprive  myself  of  velvets,  sweetmeats, 
cigarettes,  and  clean  shirts,  when  their  production  is  already 
set  in  going. 

A  crowd,  maddened  with  the  passion  of  destruction,  will 
employ  this  very  reasoning.  It  leads  a  pack  of  dogs,  when 
one  of  their  number  runs  against  another  and  knocks  it  down, 
to  attack  it  and  tear  it  to  pieces.  Others  have  already  be- 
gun, have  done  a  little  mischief  ;  why  shouldn't  I,  too,  do  the 
same?  What  can  it  possibly  signify  if  I  wear  a  dirty  shirt, 
and  make  m}'  cigarettes  myself?  Could  that  help  any  one? 
Ask  men  who  desire  to  justify  themselves. 

Had  we  not  wandered  so  far  from  truth,  it  would  be  need- 
less to  answer  this  question  ;  but  we  are  so  entangled  that 
such  a  question  seems  natural  to  us,  and,  therefore,  though  I 
feel  ashamed,  I  must  answer  it. 

What  difference  would  it  be  if  I  should  wear  my  shirt  a 
week  instead  of  one  day,  and  make  mj'  cigarettes  myself,  or 
leave  otf  smoking  altogether? 

The  difference  would  be  this, —  that  a  certain  Avasherwoman, 
and  a  certain  cigarette-maker,  would  exert  themselves  less, 
and  what  I  gave  former]}'  for  the  washing  of  my  shirt,  ard 
for  the  making  of  my  cigarettes,  I  may  give  now  to  that  or 
to  another  woman  ;  and  working-people  who  aro  tired  by  their 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  133 

work,  instead  of  overworking  themselves,  will  be  able  to  rest 
and  to  have  tea.  But  I  have  heaid  objections  to  this,  so 
averse  are  the  rich  and  the  luxurious  to  understand  their 
position. 

The}'  repl}^  "  If  I  should  wear  dirty  linen,  leave  off  smok- 
ing, and  give  this  money  away  to  the  poor,  tlieu  tiiis  money 
would  be  all  the  same  taken  away  from  them,  and  m\'  drop 
will  not  help  to  swell  the  sea." 

I  am  still  more  ashamed  to  answer  such  a  reply,  but  at  the 
same  time  I  must  do  so.  If  I  came  among  savages  who 
gave  me  chops  which  I  thought  delicious,  but  the  next  day  I 
learned  (perliaps  saw  myself)  that  these  delicious  chops 
were  made  of  a  human  prisoner  who  had  been  slain  in  order 
to  make  them  ;  and  if  I  think  it  bad  to  eat  men,  however  de- 
licious the  cutlets  may  be.  and  however  general  the  custom 
to  eat  men  among  the  persons  with  луЬот  1  live,  and  however 
small  the  utilit}'  to  the  prisoners  who  have  been  prepared  f(jr 
food  m}'  refusal  to  cat  them  may  be,  I  shall  not  and  can  not 
eat  them. 

JNIaybe  I  shall  eat  human  flesh  when  urged  by  hunger ;  but 
I  shall  not  make  a  feast  of  it,  and  shall  not  take  part  in 
feasts  with  human  flesh,  and  shall  not  seek  such  feasts,  and 
be  proud  of  my  partaking  of  them. 


XXV. 

But  what  is  to  be  done,  then?  Is  it  we  who  are  to  blame? 
And  if  not,  луЬо  is? 

We  say,  It  is  not  we  who  have  done  all  this  :  it  has  been 
done  of  itself ;  as  children  say  when  they  break  any  thing, 
that  it  broke  itself.  We  sa}'  that,  as  towns  are  already  in 
existence,  we,  who  are  living  there,  must  feed  men  by 
buying  their  labor.  But  that  is  not  true.  It  need  onlj'  be 
ol)served  how  we  live  in  the  cuuutr}',  and  how  we  feed  peo- 
ple there. 

Winter  is  over :  Piaster  is  past.  In  town  the  same  or- 
gies of  the  rich  go  on, — on  the  boulevards,  in  gardens,  in 
the  parks,  on  the  river,  music,  theatres,  riding,  illuminations, 
fire-works ;  but  in  the  conntr}-  it  is  still  better,  —  the  air 
is  purer ;  the  trees,  the  meadows,  the  flowers,  are  fresher. 
We  must  go  where  all  is  budding  and  blooming.  And  now 
the  majority  of  rich  people,  who  utilize  other  men's  labor, 


134  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

go  into  the  country  to  breathe  the  purer  air,  to  look  at  the 
meadows  and  woods.  And  here  in  the  country  among 
huml)le  villagers,  who  feed  upon  bread  and  onions,  work 
eighteen  hours  every  day,  and  have  neither  sufficient  sleep 
nor  clothes,  rich  people  take  up  their  abode.  No  one  tempts 
these  people  :  here  are  no  factories,  and  no  idle  hands,  of 
which  there  are  so  many  in  town,  and  which  we  imagine 
we  feed  by  givnig  them  work  to  do.  Here  people  never 
can  do  their  own  work  in  time  during  the  summer ;  and  not 
only  are  there  no  idle  hands,  but  much  property  is  lost  for 
want  of  hands  ;  and  an  immense  number  of  men,  children, 
old  people,  and  women  with  child,  overwork  themselves. 

How,  then,  do  rich  peo[)le  order  their  lives  here?  Thus: 
If  there  happens  to  be  an  old  mansion,  built  in  the  time  of 
the  serfs,  tlien  this  lujuse  is  renewed  and  embellished  :  if 
there  is  not,  one  is  built  of  two  or  three  stories.  The  rooms, 
which  are  from  twelve  to  twenty  and  more  in  number,  are 
all  about  sixteen  feet  high.  The  floors  are  inlaid  ;  in  the 
windows  are  put  single  panes  of  glass,  expensive  carpets 
on  the  floors  ;  ex[)ensive  furniture  is  procured,  — a  sideboard, 
for  instance,  costing  from  twenty  to  sixty  pounds.  Near 
the  mansion,  roads  are  made;  flower-beds  are  laid  out; 
there  are  croquet-grounds,  giant-strides,  reflecling-globes, 
conservatories,  and  liot-honses,  and  always  luxurious  stables. 
All  is  painted  in  colors,  prepared  with  the  very  oil  which 
old  peo[)le  and  children  lack  for  their  porridge.  If  a  rich 
man  can  afford  it,  he  buys  such  a  house  for  liimself ;  if  he 
cannot,  he  hires  one  :  but  however  poor  and  however  liberal 
a  man  of  our  circle  may  be,  he  always  takes  up  his  abode 
in  the  countr}'  in  such  a  house,  for  building  and  keeping 
which  it  is  necessary  to  take  away  dozens  of  working-people 
who  have  not  enough  time  to  do  their  own  business  in  the 
field  in  order  to  earn  their  living. 

Here  we  cannot  say  that  factories  are  already  in  existence 
and  will  continue  so,  whether  we  make  use  of  their  work 
or  no  ;  we  cannot  say  that  we  are  feeding  idle  hands  ;  here 
we  plainly  establish  the  factories  for  making  things  neces- 
sary for  us,  and  simply  make  use  of  the  surrounding  people  ; 
we  divert  the  peojile  from  work  necessary  for  them,  as 
for  us  and  for  all,  and  by  such  system  deprave  some,  and 
ruin  the  lives  and  the  health  of  others. 

There  lives,  let  us  say,  in  a  village,  an  educated  and 
respectable  family  of  the  upper  class,  or  that  of  a  govern- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  135 

mcnt  officer.  All  the  members  of  it  and  the  A'isitors  assem- 
ble towards  the  middle  of  June,  because  up  to  June  they 
had  been  studying  and  jjassing  their  examinations :  they 
assemble  when  mowing  begins,  and  they  stay  until  Septem- 
ber, until  the  harvest  and  sowing  time.  The  members  of 
the  family  (as  almost  all  men  of  this  class)  remain  in  the 
country  from  the  beginning  of  the  urgent  work,  —  harvest- 
time, —  not  to  the  end  of  it,  indeed,  because  in  September 
tlie  sowing  goes  on.  and  the  digging  up  of  potatoes,  but  till 
labor  begins  to  slacken.  During  all  the  time  of  their  stay, 
around  them  and  close  by,  the  peasants'  summer  work  has 
been  proceeding,  the  strain  of  which,  howcAxn-  much  we  may 
have  heard  or  read  of  it,  however  much  we  may  have  looked 
at  it,  we  can  form  no  adequate  idea  without  having  experi- 
enced it  ourselves. 

And  the  members  of  the  famil}',  about  ten  persons,  have 
been  living  as  they  did  iu  town,  if  possible  still  worse  than 
in  town,  because  here  in  the  village  they  are  supposed  to 
be  resting  (after  doing  nothing),  and  offer  no  pretence  in 
the  way  of  work,  and  no  excuse  for  their  idleness. 

In  the  middle  of  the  summer,  when  people  are  forced  from 
want  to  feed  on  kvas,  and  bread  and  onions,  begins  the 
mowing-time.  Gentlefolks,  who  live  in  the  country-,  see 
this  labor,  partly  order  it,  partly  admire  it ;  enjoy  the  smell 
of  the  drying  hoy.  the  sound  of  women's  songs,  the  noise  of 
the  scythes,  and  the  sight  of  the  rows  of  mowers,  and  of  the 
women  raking.  They  see  this  as  well  near  their  house  as 
when  they,  with  young  people  and  children,  who  do  nothing 
all  the  day  long,  drive  well-fed  horses  a  distance  of  a  few 
hundred  yards  to  the  bathing-place. 

The  work  of  mowing  is  one  of  the  most  important  in  the 
world.  Nearly  every  year,  from  want  of  hands  and  of  time, 
the  meadows  remain  half  cut,  and  may  remain  so  till  the 
rains  begin  ;  so  that  the  degree  of  intensitj'  of  the  labor 
decides  the  question  whether  twent}-  or  more  per  cent  will  be 
added  to  the  stores  of  men,  or  whether  this  hay  will  be  left 
to  rot  and  spoil  while  yet  uncut. 

And  if  there  is  more  hay,  there  will  be  also  more  meat  for 
old  people,  and  milk  for  children  ;  thus  matters  stand  in  gen- 
eral ;  but  in  i)articular  for  each  mower  here  is  decided  the 
question  of  bread  and  milk  for  himself,  and  for  his  children 
during  the  winter. 

Each  of  the  working-people,  male  and  female,  knows  it* 


136  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

even  the  children  know  tlint  this  is  an  important  business, 
and  that  one  ought  to  work  with  all  one's  strength,  carry  a 
jug  with  kvas  for  the  father  to  the  mowing-place,  and,  shift- 
ing it  from  one  hand  to  another,  run  barefoot  as  quickly  as 
possible,  a  distance  of  perhaps  a  mile  and  a  half  from  tiie 
village,  in  order  to  be  in  time  for  dinner,  that  father  may  not 
grumble.  Every  one  knows,  that,  from  the  mowing  to  the 
harvest,  there  will  be  no  interruption  of  labor,  and  no  time 
for  rest.  And  besides  mowing,  each  has  some  other  business 
to  do,  -^  to  plough  up  new  land,  and  to  harrow  it ;  the  women 
have  cloth  to  make,  bread  to  bake,  and  the  washing  to  do  ;  and 
the  peasants  must  drive  to  the  mill  and  to  market ;  they  have 
the  official  att'airs  of  their  community  to  attend  to  ;  they 
have  also  to  provide  the  local  government  officials  with  means 
of  locomotion,  and  to  pass  the  night  in  the  fields  with  tlie 
pastured  horses. 

All,  old  and  young  and  sick,  work  with  all  their  strength. 

The  peasants  work  in  such  a  way,  that,  when  cutting  the 
last  rows,  the  mowers,  weak  people,  growing  youths,  old  men, 
are  so  tired,  that,  having  rested  a  little,  it  is  with  great  pain 
they  begin  anew  :  the  women,  often  with  child,  work  hard 
too. 

It  is  a  strained,  incessant  labor.  All  work  to  the  utmost 
of  their  strength,  and  use  not  onlj'  all  their  provisions,  but 
what  they  have  in  store  :  during  harvest-time  all  the  peasants 
grow  thinner,  although  they  never  were  very  stout. 

There  is  a  small  company  laboring  in  the  hayfield,  three 
peasants,  —  one  of  them  an  old  man  ;  another  his  nephew,  who 
is  married  ;  and  tlie  third  the  village  bootmaker,  a  thin,  wiry 
man.  Their  mowing  this  morning  decides  their  fate  for  the 
coming  winter,  whether  they  will  be  able  to  keep  a  cow  and 
pay  taxes.  This  is  their  second  week's  work.  The  rain 
hindered  them  for  a  while.  After  the  rain  had  left  otf,  and 
the  water  had  di'ied  up,  thej'  decided  on  making  hayricks  ; 
and  in  order  to  do  it  quicker,  they  decided  that  two  women 
must  rake  to  each  scythe.  With  the  old  man  came  out  his 
wife,  fifty  years  of  age,  worn  out  with  labor  and  the  bearing 
of  eleven  children,  deaf,  but  still  strong  enough  for  work; 
and  his  daughter,  thirteen  years  of  age,  a  short  but  brisk 
and  strong  little  girl. 

Witli  the  nephew  came  his  wife,  — a  tall  woman,  as  strong 
as  a  peasant;  and  his  sister-in-law, — a  soldier's  wife,  who 
was  with  child.      With  the  bootmaker  came  his  wife,  —  a 


WHAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN  f  137 

strong  working- woman  ;  and  her  mother,  —  an  old  woman 
abont  eighty,  wlio  for  the  rest  of  the  year  nsed  to  beg. 

They  all  draw  up  in  a  line,  and  work  from  morning  to 
evening  in  the  bnrning  sim  of  June.  It  is  steaming  hot,  and 
a  thunder-shower  is  threatening.  Every  moment  of  work  is 
precious.  They  have  not  wished  to  leave  off  working,  even 
in  order  to  fetch  water  or  kvas.  A  small  boy,  the  grandson 
of  the  old  woman,  brings  them  water.  The  old  woman  is 
evidently  anxious  only  on  one  point,  —  not  to  be  obliged  to 
cease  working.  She  does  not  let  the  rake  out  of  her  hands, 
and  moves  about  with  great  difficulty.  The  little  boy,  quite 
bent  under  the  jug  with  water,  heavier  than  he  himself,  walks 
with  short  steps  on  his  bare  feet'',  and  carries  the  jug,  with 
many  shifts.  The  little  girl  takes  on  her  shoulders  a  load  of 
hay,  which  is  also  heavier  than  herself;  walks  a  few  paces, 
and  stops,  then  throws  it  down,  having  no  strength  to  carry 
it  farther.  The  old  man's  wife  rakes  together  unceasingly, 
her  kerchief  loosened  from  her  disordered  hair ;  she  carries 
the  ha3%  breathing  heavily,  and  staggering  under  the  burden  : 
the  cobbler's  mother  is  only  raking,  but  this  also  is  beyond 
her  strength  ;  she  slowly  drags  her  ill-shod  feet,  and  looks 
gloomily  before  her,  like  one  at  the  point  of  death.  The  old 
man  puiposely  sends  her  far  away  from  the  others,  to  rake 
about  the  ricks,  in  order  that  she  ma}'  not  attempt  to  com- 
pete with  tliem  ;  but  she  does  not  leave  off  working,  but 
continues  with  the  same  dead,  gloomy  face  as  long  as  the 
others. 

The  sun  is  already  setting  behind  the  wood,  and  the  ricks 
are  not  yet  in  order :  there  is  much  still  to  be  done. 

All  feel  that  it  is  time  to  leave  off  working,  but  no  one 
says  so  ;  each  waiting  for  the  other  to  suggest  it.  At  last, 
the  bootmaker,  realizing  that  he  has  no  more  strength  left, 
proposes  to  the  old  man  to  leave  the  ricks  till  to-morrow,  and 
th.'  old  man  agrees  to  it ;  and  at  once  the  women  go  to  fetch 
tiii'ir  clothes,  their  jugs,  their  pitchforks;  and  the  old  woman 
sits  down  where  she  was  standing,  and  then  lays  herself 
down  with  the  same  fixed  stare  on  her  face.  But  as  the 
women  go  away,  she  gets  up  groaning,  and,  crawling  along, 
follows  them. 

Let  us  turn  to  the  country-house.  The  same  evening, 
when  from  the  side  of  the  village  were  heard  the  rattle  of  the 
scythes  of  the  toil-worn  mowers  who  were  returning  from 
work,  the  sounds  of  the  hammer  against  the  anvil,  the  cries 


138  WHAT  зги  ST    WE  DO    THEN? 

of  women  and  girls  who  had  just  had  time  to  put  away  their 
rakes,  and  were  already  nmuing  to  drive  the  eattle  in,  —  with 
these  blend  other  sounds  from  the  country-huuse.  Drin, 
drin,  drin !  goes  the  piano ;  a  Himgariau  song  is  heard 
through  the  noise  of  the  croquet-balls  ;  before  the  stable  an 
open  carriage  is  standing,  harnessed  with  four  fat  horses, 
which  has  been  hired  for  twenty  shillings  to  bring  souie 
guests  a  distance  of  ten  miles. 

Horses  standing  by  the  carnage  rattle  their  little  bells. 
Before  them  hay  has  been  thrown,  which  they  are  scattering 
with  their  hoofs,  the  same  hay  which  the  peasants  have  ])eeu 
gathering  witli  such  hard  labor.  In  the  yard  of  this  mansion 
there  is  movement ;  a  health}',  well-fed  fellow  in  a  pink  shirt, 
presented  to  him  for  his  service  as  a  house-porter,  is  calling 
the  coachmen,  and  telling  them  to  harness  and  saddle  some 
horses.  Two  jjcasants,  who  live  here  as  coachmen,  come  out 
of  their  room,  and  go  in  an  easy  manner,  swinging  their  arms, 
to  saddle  horses  for  the  ladies  and  gentlemen.  Still  nearer 
to  the  house  the  sonnds  of  another  piano  are  heard.  It  is 
the  music-mistress,  who  lives  in  the  family  to  teach  the  chil- 
dren, practising  her  .Schumann.  The  sounds  of  one  piano 
jangle  with  tliose  of  another.  Quite  near  the  house  walk 
two  tmrses  ;  one  is  young,  another  old  ;  they  lead  and  carry 
children  to  bed  ;  these  children  are  of  the  same  age  as  those 
who  ran  from  the  village  with  jugs.  One  nurse  is  P^nglish : 
she  cannot  speak  Russian.  She  was  engaged  to  come  from 
England,  not  from  being  distinguished  b}'  some  peculiar  qual- 
ities, but  simply  because  she  does  not  speak  Russian.  Far- 
tlier  on  is  another  person,  a  French  woman,  who  is  also 
engaged  because  she  does  not  know  Russian.  P\4rther  on  a 
peasant,  with  two  women,  is  watering  flowers  near  the  house  : 
another  is  cleaning  a  gun  for  one  of  the  young  gentlemen. 
Here  two  women  are  carrying  a  basket  with  clean  linen, — 
they  have  been  washing  for  all  these  gentlefolks.  In  the 
house  two  women  have  scarceh'  time  to  wash  the  plates  and 
dishes  after  the  company,  who  have  just  done  eating ;  and 
two  peasants  in  evening  clothes  are  running  up  and  down 
the  stairs,  serving  coffee,  tea,  wine,  seltzer-water,  etc.  Up- 
stairs a  table  is  spread.  A  meal  has  just  ended;  and  an- 
other will  soon  begin,  to  continue  till  cock-crow,  and  often 
till  morning  dawns.  Some  are  sitting  smoking,  playing 
cards  ;  others  are  sittins:  and  smoking,  engaged  in  discours- 
ing liberal  ideas  of  reform;  and  others,  again,  walk  to  and 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  139 

fro,  eat,  smoke,  and,  not  knowing  what  to  do,  have  made  up 
their  mind  to  take  a  drive. 

Tlie  househokl  consists  of  fifteen  persons,  healtliy  men 
and  women ;  and  tliirty  persons,  healtliy  working-[)eo[)le, 
male  and  female,  labor  for  them.  And  this  takes  place 
there,  where  every  hour,  and  each  little  boj^ ,  are  precious. 

This  will  be  so,  also,  in  July,  when  the  peasants,  not  having 
had  their  sleep  out,  will  mow  the  oats  at  night,  in  order  that 
it  may  not  be  lost,  and  the  women  will  get  up  before  dawn 
in  order  to  finish  their  threshing  in  time  ;  when  this  old 
woman,  who  had  been  exhausted  during  the  harvest,  and  the 
women  with  child,  and  the  little  children,  all  will  again  over- 
Avork  themselves,  and  when  there  is  a  great  want  of  hands, 
horses,  carts,  in  order  to  house  this  corn  upon  which  all  men 
feed,  of  which  millions  of  poods  are  necessary  in  Russia  in 
order  that  men  should  not  die  :  during  even  such  a  time, 
the  idle  lives  of  ladies  and  gentlemen  Avill  go  on.  There  will 
be  private  theatricals,  picnics,  hunting,  drinking,  eating, 
piano-playing,  singing,  dancing,  —  in  fact,  incessant  orgies. 

Here,  at  least,  it  is  impossible  to  find  any  excuse  from 
the  fact  that  all  this  had  been  going  on  before  :  nothing 
of  the  kind  had  been  in  existence.  We  ourselves  carefully 
create  such  a  life,  taking  bread  and  labor  away  from  the 
work-worn  people.  We  live  sumptuously,  as  if  there  were 
no  connection  whatever  between  the  dying  washerwoman, 
child-prostitute,  women  worn  out  by  making  cigarettes,  and 
by  all  the  intense  labor  around  us  which  is  inadequate  to 
their  unnourished  strength.  We  do  not  Avant  to  see  the  fact 
tiiat  if  there  were  not  our  idle,  luxurious,  depraved  lives, 
there  would  not  be  this  lal)or  dispro])orti()ned  to  the  strength 
of  ])eople,  and  that  if  there  were  not  this  labor  we  could  not 
go  on  living  in  the  same  way. 

It  ai)pears  to  us  that  tiieir  sufferings  are  one  thing,  and  our 
lives  another,  and  that  we,  living  as  we  do,  are  innocent  and 
l)!ire  as  doves.  We  read  the  description  of  the  lives  of  tiie 
Ivomans.  and  wonder  at  the  inhumanity  of  a  heartless  Lucul- 
lus,  who  gorged  himself  with  fine  dishes  and  delicious  wines 
while  people  were  starving  :  we  shake  our  heads,  and  wonder 
at  the  barbarism  of  our  grandfathers,  —  the  serf-owners.  — 
who  provided  themselves  with  orchestras  and  theatres,  and 
emi)l()yed  whole  villages  to  keep  up  their  gainh'ns.  From  tiie 
height  of  our  greatness  лус  wonder  nt  their  inhumanity.  We 
read    the   words   of    Isaiah  v.   S,   Woe  unto  them  that  join 


140  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

house  to  house,  that  lay  field  to  field,  till  there  be  no  room, 
aud  ye  be  made  to  dwell  alone  ia  the  midst  of  the  laud. 

li.  Woe  uuto  tlieui  that  rise  up  early  iu  the  morniug.  that 
they  ma}'  follow  strong  drink  ;  that  tarry  late  into  the  night, 
till  wine  inflame  them  ! 

12.  And  the  harp,  aud  the  lute,  the  tabret,  the  pipe,  and 
wine,  are  in  their  feasts  :  but  the}'  regard  not  the  work  of  the 
Lord,  neither  have  they  considered  the  operation  of  his  hands. 

18.  Woe  unto  them  that  draw  iniquity  with  cords  of  vanity, 
and  sin  as  it  were  with  a  cart  rope. 

20.  Woe  unto  them  that  call  evil  good,  and  good  evil ; 
that  put  darkness  for  light,  and  light  for  darkness  ;  that  put 
bitter  for  sweet,  and  sweet  for  bitter  ! 

21.  Woe  unto  them  that  are  wise  in  their  own  eyes,  and 
prudent  in  their  own  sight ! 

22.  ЛУое  unto  them  that  are  mighty  to  drink  wine,  and  men 
of  strength  to  mingle  strong-  drink  : 

23.  Which  justify  the  wicked  for  reward,  and  take  away 
the  righteousness  of  the  righteous  from  him  ! 

ЛУе  read  these  words,  and  it  seems  to  us  that  they  have 
nothing  to  do  with  us.  We  read  iu  the  Gospel,  Matthew 
iii.  10  :  Aud  even  now  is  the  axe  laid  unto  the  root  of  the 
tree  :  every  tree  therefore  that  bringeth  not  forth  good  fruit 
is  hewn  down,  and  cast  into  the  fire. 

And  we  are  quite  sui-e  that  the  good  tree  bearing  good  fruit 
is  we  ourselves,  and  that  those  words  are  said,  not  to  us,  but 
to  some  other  bad  men. 

ЛУе  read  the  words  of  Isaiah  vi.  10:  Make  the  heart  of 
this  people  fat,  and  make  their  ears  heav\-,  and  shut  their 
eyes  ;  lest  they  see  witii  their  eyes^  and  hear  with  their  ears, 
aud  understand  with  their  heart,  and  turn  again,  and  be 
healed.  , 

11.  Then  said  I,  Lord,  how  long?  And  he  answered, 
Until  cities  be  waste  without  inhabitant,  and  houses  with- 
out man,  and  the  land  become  utterly  waste. 

We  read,  and  are  quite  assured  that  this  wonderful  thing 
has  not  happened  to  us.  but  to  some  other  people.  But  it  is 
for  this  very  reason  we  do  not  see  that  this  has  happened  to, 
and  is  taking  place  with,  us.  ЛУе  do  not  hear,  we  do  not  see, 
and  do  not  understand  with  our  heart.  But  wh}-  has  it  so 
happened  ? 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO   THEN?  141 


XXVI. 

HoAV  can  a  man  who  considers  himself  to  be,  we  will  not 
say  a  Christian,  or  an  edncated  and  humane  man,  but  siuii)ly 
a  man  not  entirely  devoid  of  reason  and  of  conscience,  — 
how  can  he,  1  say,  live  in  such  a  way,  that,  not  taking  part 
in  the  struggle  of  all  mankind  for  life,  he  only  swallows  ui) 
the  labor  of  others,  struggling  for  existence,  and  l)y  his  own 
claims  increases  the  labor  of  those  who  struggle,  and  the 
number  of  those  who  perish  in  struggle? 

And  such  men  abound  in  our  so-called  Christian  aiid  cul- 
tured world  ;  and  not  only  do  they  abound  in  our  world,  but 
the  ver}'  ideal  of  the  men  of  our  Christian,  cultured  world,  is 
to  get  the  largest  amount  of  property,  —  that  is,  wealth, — 
which  secures  all  comforts  and  idleness  of  life  by  freeing  its 
possessors  from  tlie  struggle  for  existence,  and  enabling  them, 
as  much  as  possible,  to  profit  by  the  labor  of  those  brothers 
of  theirs  who  perish  in  that  struggle. 

How  could  men  have  fallen  into  such  astounding  error? 

How  could  they  have  come  to  such  a  state  that  they  can 
neither  see  nor  hear  nor  understand  with  tlieir  heart  that 
which  is  so  clear,  obvious,  and  certain  ? 

One  need  only  tiiink  for  a  moment  in  order  to  be  terrified 
at  the  contradiction  of  our  lives  to  wliat  we  profess  to 
believe,  we,  wlietlier  we  be  Christian,  or  only  humane,  edu- 
cated people.  Be  it  God  or  a  law  of  nature  that  governs 
the  world  and  men,  good  or  bad,  the  position  of  men  in 
this  world,  so  long  as  we  know  it,  has  always  been  such 
that  naked  men,  without  wool  on  their  bodies,  without  holes 
in  which  to  take  refuge,  without  food  which  they  might 
find  in  tlie  field  like  Robinson  Crusoe  on  his  island,  are 
put  into  a  position  of  a  continual  and  incessant  struggle 
with  nature  in  order  to  cover  their  bodies  b}'  making  clotlies 
for  tliemselves,  to  protect  themselves  by  a  roof  over  their 
heads,  and  to  earn  food  in  order  twice  or  thrice  a  day  to 
satisfy  tlieir  hunger,  and  that  of  their  cliildren  and  of  their 
{)arents. 

Wlierover  and  whenever  and  to  wliatever  extent  we 
observe  the  lives  of  men,  wlietlier  in  Europe,  America, 
China,  or  Russia  ;  whether  we  take  into  consideration  all 
mankind,  or  a  small  portion,  whether  in  olden  times  in  a 
nomad  state,  or  in  modi'in  times  with  steam-engines,  steam- 


142  WUAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

ploughs,  sewing-machiues,  and  electric  light,  —  we  shall  see 
one  and  the  same  thing  going  on,  —  that  men,  working  con- 
stantly and  incessantly,  are  not  able  to  get  clothes,  shelter, 
and  food  for  themselves,  their  little  ones,  and  the  old,  and 
that  the  greatest  nnmber  of  men  as  well  in  olden  times  as 
now  perish  from  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life  and  from 
overwork. 

Wherever  we  may  live,  if  we  draw  a  circle  around  us,  of 
a  hundred  thousand,  or  a  thousand  or  ten,  or  even  one  mile's 
circumference,  and  look  at  the  lives  of  those  men  who  are 
inside  our  circle,  we  shall  find  half-starved  children,  old 
people  male  and  female,  pregnant  women,  sick  and  weak 
persons,  woi'king  beyond  their  strength,  and  who  have 
neither  food  nor  rest  enough  to  support  them,  and  who,  for 
this  reason,  die  before  their  time  :  we  shall  see  others  full- 
grown,  who  are  even  killed  by  dangerous  and  hurtful  tasks. 

Since  the  лvorld  has  existed,  Ave  find  that  men  with  great 
efforts,  sufferings,  and  privations  have  been  struggling  for 
their  common  Avants,  and  have  not  been  able  to  overcome 
the  difficulty. 

Besides,  we  also  know  that  every  one  of  us,  wherever 
and  however  he  ma}'  live,  nolens  volens,  is  ever}'  day,  and 
every  hour  of  the  day,  absorbing  for  himself  a  part  of  the 
labor  done  b}'  mankind. 

WhereA^er  and  however  he  lives,  his  house,  the  roof  over 
him,  do  not  grow  of  themselves  ;  the  firewood  in  his  stove 
does  not  get  there  of  itself  ;  the  water  did  not  come  of  itself 
either ;  and  the  baked  bread  does  not  fall  down  from  the 
sky  ;  his  dinner,  his  clothes,  and  the  covering  for  his  feet, 
all  this  has  been  made  for  him,  not  onlj^  by  men  of  past 
generations,  long  dead,  but  it  is  being  done  for  him  now 
by  those  men  of  whom  hundreds  and  thousands  are  fainting 
awa}'  and  dying,  in  vain  efforts  to  get  for  themselves  and 
for  their  children  sufftcient  shelter,  food,  and  clothes,  — 
means  to  save  themselves  and  their  children  from  suffering 
and  a  premature  death. 

All  men  are  struggling  with  want.  They  are  struggling 
so  intensely  that  always  around  them  their  brethren, 
fathers,  mothers,  children,  are  perishing.  Men  in  this 
world  are  like  those  on  a  dismantled  or  water-logged  ship, 
witli  a  short  allowance  of  food  ;  all  are  put  by  God,  or  iiy 
nature,  in  such  a  position  that  they  must  husband  their 
food,  and  unceasingly  war  with  want. 


WUAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  143 

Each  interruption  in  tliis  work  of  every  one  of  ns,  each 
absorption  of  the  labor  of  others  useless  for  the  couiiuon 
welfare,  is  ruinous,  alike  for  us  and  them. 

How  is  it  that  tlie  majority  of  educated  people,  without 
laboring,  are  quietly  absorbing  the  labors  of  others,  neces- 
sary for  their  own  lives,  and  are  considering  such  an  exist- 
ence quite  natural  and  reasonable? 

If  we  are  to  free  ourselves  from  the  labor  proper  and 
natural  to  all,  and  lay  it  on  others,  at  the  same  time  not 
considering  ourselves  to  be  traitors  and  thieves,  we  can  do 
so  only  by  two  suppositions,  —  first,  that  we  (the  men  who 
take  no  pai't  in  common  labor)  are  different  beings  from 
workingmen,  and  have  a  peculiar  destin}'  to  fulfil  in  society 
(like  drone-bees,  which  have  a  different  function  from  the 
working-bees)  ;  or  secondly,  that  the  business  which  we 
(men  freed  from  the  struggle  for  existence)  are  doing  for 
other  men  is  so  useful  for  all  that  it  undoubtedly  compen- 
sates for  that  harm  which  we  do  to  others  in  overburdening 
them. 

In  olden  times,  men  who  utilized  the  labor  of  others 
asserted,  first,  tliat  they  belonged  to  a  different  race  ;  and 
secondly,  that  they  had  from  God  a  peculiar  mission, — car- 
ing for  the  welfare  of  others  ;  in  other  words,  to  gOA^ern  and 
teach  them  :  and  therefore,  they  assured  others,  and  partly 
believed  themselves,  that  the  business  they  did  was  more 
useful  and  more  important  for  the  people  than  those  labors 
by  which  they  profit.  This  justification  was  sufficient  so 
long  as  the  direct  interference  of  God  in  human  affairs,  and 
the  inecpiality  of  human  races,  was  undoubted. 

l)Ut  with  Christianit}',  and  the  consciousness  of  the  equality 
and  unit}'  of  all  men  proceeding  from  it,  this  justification 
could  no  longer  be  expressed  in  its  previous  form. 

It  was  no  longer  i)ossible  to  assert  that  men  are  born  of 
diffei'ent  kind  and  qualit}',  and  having  a  different  destiny  ; 
and  the  old  justificaticni,  th(Kigh  still  held  by  some,  has  been 
little  by  little  destroyed,  and  has  now  almost  entirely  disap- 
peared. 

But  tliough  the  justification  disappeared,  the  fact  itself, 
of  the  freeing  of  some  men  from  labor,  and  the  appropriation 
by  them  of  other  men's  labor,  remained  the  same  for  those 
who  had  the  power  of  enforcing  it.  For  this  existing  fact, 
new  excuses  iiave  constantly  been  invented,  in  order  that, 
without  asserting  the  difference  of  human  beings,  men  might 


144  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

be  able  to  free  theinselves  from  personal  labor  with  apparent 
justice.  A  great  many  such  justifications  have  been  in- 
vented. 

However  strange  it  may  seem,  the  main  object  of  all  that 
has  been  called  science,  and  tlie  ruling  tendene\'  of  science, 
has  been  the  seeking  out  of  such  excuse. 

This  has  been  the  object  of  the  theological  sciences,  and 
of  the  science  of  law :  this  was  tlie  object  of  so-calltd 
philosophy,  and  this  became  lately  the  object  of  modern 
rationalistic  science.  All  the  theological  subtleties  whicli 
aimed  at  proving  that  a  certain  church  is  the  only  true 
successor  of  Christ,  and  that,  therefore,  she  alone  lias  full 
and  uncontrolled  power  over  the  souls  and  bodies  of  men, 
had  in  view  this  ver}'  object. 

All  the  legal  sciences  —  those  of  state  law,  penal  law,  civil 
law,  and  international  law  —  have  this  sole  aim  :  the  majoiity 
of  philosophical  theories,  especially  that  of  Hegel,  which 
reigned  over  the  minds  of  men  for  such  a  long  time,  and 
maintained  the  assertion  that  ever}'  thing  which  exists  is 
reasonable,  and  that  the  state  is  a  necessary  form  of  the 
development  of  human  personality,  had  only  this  one  object 
in  view. 

.  Comte's  positive  philosophy  and  its  outcome,  the  doctrine 
that  mankind  is  an  organism ;  Darwin's  doctrine  of  the 
struggle  for  existence,  directing  life  and.  its  conclusion,  the 
teaching  of  diversity  of  human  races,  the  now  so  popular 
anthropology,  biology,  and  sociolog}',  —  all  have  the  same 
aim.  These  sciences  have  become  favorites,  because  tliey  all 
serve  for  the  justification  of  the  existing  fact  of  some  men 
being  able  to  free  themselves  from  the  human  dut}'  of  labor, 
and  to  consume  other  men's  labor. 

All  these  theories,  as  is  always  the  case,  are  worked  out 
in  the  m3'sterious  sanctums  of  augurs,  and  in  vague,  unintelli- 
gil)le  exi)ressions  are  spread  abroad  among  the  masses,  and 
adopted  by  them. 

As  in  olden  times,  the  subtleties  of  theology,  which  justified 
violence  in  church  and  state,  were  the  special  })ro[)eitv  of 
priests  ;  and  in  the  masses  of  the  i)eople,  the  conclusions, 
taken  by  faith,  and  ready  made  for  them,  were  circulated, 
that  the  power  of  kings,  clergy  and  nobility,  was  sacred  :  so 
afterwards,  the  philoso[)hical  and  legal  subtleties  of  so-called 
science  became  the  property"  of  the  priests  of  science  ;  and 
through  the  masses  only  the  ready-made  eouclusions*,  accepted 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  145 

by  faith,  that  social  order  (the  organization  of  societ}') 
must  l)e  such  as  it  is,  and  cannot  be  otherwise,  Avas 
ditfused. 

So  it  is  also  now  :  it  is  only  in  the  sanctuaries  of  the 
modern  sages  that  the  laws  of  life  and  development  of  or- 
ganisms are  analyzed.  Whereas  in  the  crowd,  the  ready- 
made  conclusion  accepted  on  trust,  that  division  of  labor  is 
a  law,  confirmed  by  science,  is  circulated,  and  that  thus  it 
must  be  tliat  some  ai'e  starving  and  toiling,  and  others 
eternalh'  feasting,  and  that  this  very  ruin  of  some,  and  feasting 
of  others,  is  the  undoubted  law  of  man's  life,  to  which  we 
must  submit. 

The  current  justification  of  their  idleness  of  all  so-called 
educated  people,  with  their  various  activities,  from  the 
railway  pro[)rietor  down  to  the  author  and  artist,  is  this  : 
AVe  men  who  have  freed  ourselves  from  the  common  human 
duty  of  taking  part  in  the  struggle  for  existence,  are  furthering 
progress,  and  so  we  are  of  great  use  to  all  human  society,  of 
such  use  that  it  counteibalances  all  the  harm  we  do  the  people 
by  consuming  their  labor. 

This  reasoning  seems  to  the  men  of  our  day  to  be  not  at 
all  like  the  reasoning  by  which  the  former  non-workers 
justifii.41  themselves  ;  just  as  the  reasoning  of  the  Roman 
empei'ors  and  citizens,  that  but  for  them  the  civilized  woi-ld 
would  go  to  ruin,  seemed  to  them  to  be  of  quite  another 
order  to  that  of  the  Egyptians  and  Persians,  and  so  also  an 
exactly  similar  kind  of  reasoning  seemed  in  turn  to  the  knights 
and  clergy  of  the  Middle  Ages  totally  ditfereut  from  that  of 
the  Romans. 

But  it  only  seems  to  be  so.  One  need  but  reflect  upon 
the  justification  of  our  time  in  order  to  ascertain  that  in  it 
there  is  nothing  new.  It  is  only  a  little  differently  dressed 
u|).  Init  it  is  the  same  because  it  is  based  upon  the  same 
principle.  Every  justification  of  one  man's  consumption  of 
till'  1а1)()Г  of  others,  while  producing  none  himself,  as  with 
I'haraoh  and  his  soothsayers,  the  emperors  of  Rome  and 
those  of  the  ^Middle  Ages  and  their  citizens,  knights,  priests, 
and  clergy,  always  consists  in  these  two  assertions :  Eirst, 
we  take  the  labor  of  the  masses,  because  we  are  a  peculiar 
people,  called  by  God  to  govern  them,  and  to  teach  them 
divine  truths ;  secondh',  those  who  compose  tlie  masses 
cannot  he  judges  of  the  measure  of  labor  which  we  take 
from  them  for  the  good  we  do  for  them,  because,  as  it  has 


146  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

been  said  by  the  Pharisees,  "  This  multitiide  which  kuoweth 
not  the  law  are  accursed  "    (John  vii.  49). 

The  people  do  not  understand  wherein  lies  their  good,  and 
therefore  they  cannot  be  judges  of  the  benefits  done  to  them. 
The  justification  of  our  time,  notwithstanding  all  apparent 
originality,  in  fact  consists  of  the  same  fundamental  asser- 
tions :  First,  we  are  a  peculiar  people,  —  we  are  an  educated 
people,  —  we  further  progress  and  civilization,  and  by  this 
fact,  we  procure  for  the  masses  a  great  advantage.  Sec- 
ondly, the  uneducated  crowd  does  not  understand  that 
advantage  which  we  procure  for  them,  and  therefore  cannot 
be  judges  of  it. 

The  fundamental  assertions  are  the  same.  We  free  our- 
selves from  labor,  appropriate  the  labor  of  others,  and  by 
this  increase  the  burden  of  our  fellows,  and  assert  that  in 
compensation  for  this  we  bring  them  a  greater  advantage,  of 
which  they,  owing  to  their  ignorance,  cannot  be  judges. 

Is  it  not,  then,  the  same  thing?  The  only  difference  lies  in 
this,  that  formerly  the  citizens,  the  Roman  priests,  the 
kniglits,  and  tlie  nobility,  had  claims  on  other  men's  labor, 
and  now  these  claims  are  put  forward  by  a  caste  who  term 
themselves  educated. 

The  lie  is  the  same,  because  the  men  who  justify  them- 
selves are  in  the  same  false  position.  The  lie  consists  in  the 
fact,  that,  before  beginning  to  reason  about  the  advantages 
conferred  on  the  people  by  men  wiio  have  freed  themselves 
from  labor,  certain  men,  Pharaohs,  priests,  or  we  ourselves, — 
educated  people.  —  assume  this  position,  and  only  afterwards 
excogitate  a  justification  for  it. 

This  very  position  of  some  men  who  oppressed  others, 
in  former  time  as  now,  serves  as  a  universal  basis.  The 
difference  of  our  justification  from  the  ancient  ones,  consists 
only  in  the  fact  that  it  is  more  false,  and  less  well  grounded. 
The  old  emperors  and  popes,  if  they  themselves  and  the  peo- 
ple believed  in  their  divine  calling,  could  plainly  explain  why 
the}'  were  the  men  to  control  the  labor  of  others :  they  said 
that  they  were  appointed  b}'  ftod  himself  for  this  very  thing, 
and  from  God  they  had  a  commandment  to  teach  the  people 
divine  truths  revealed  to  them,  and  to  govern  them. 

But  modern,  educated  men,  who  do  not  labor  with  their 
hands,  acknowledging  the  equality  of  all  men,  cannot  explain 
why  they  in  particular  and  their  children  (for  education  is 
only  by  шопе}'  ;  that  is,  by  power)  are  those  lucky  [lersons 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  147 

who  are  called  to  an  immaterial,  easy  utility,  out  of  those 
millions  who  by  hundreds  and  thousands  are  perishing  in 
making  it  possible  for  them  to  be  educated.  Their  only  jus- 
tilicatiou  consists  in  this,  that  they,  such  as  the}'  now  are, 
instead  of  doing  harm  to  the  people  by  freeing  themselves 
from  labor,  and  by  swallowing  up  labor,  bring  to  the  people 
an  advantage  unintelligible  to  them,  which  compensates  for 
all  the  evil  perpetrated  upon  them. 


XXVII. 

The  theory  by  which  men  who  have  freed  themselves  from 
personal  labor  justify  themselves  in  its  simplest  and  most 
exact  form,  is  this  :  We  men,  having  freed  ourselves  from 
work,  and  having  by  violence  appropriated  the  labor  of  oth- 
ers, find  ourselves  better  able  to  benefit  them ;  in  other 
words,  certain  men,  for  doing  the  people  a  palpable  and 
comi)rehensil)le  harm,  —  utilizing  by  violence  their  labor,  and 
thereby  increasing  the  difficulty  of  their  struggles  with  nature, 
—  do  to  them  an  impalpable  and  incomprehensible  good. 

This  i)roposition  is  a  very  strange  one  ;  but  men,  as  well  of 
former  as  also  of  modern  times,  who  have  lived  on  the  labors 
of  workingmen,  believe  it,  and  calm  their  conscience  by  it. 
Let  us  see  in  what  way  it  is  justified  in  different  classes  of 
men,  who  have  freed  themselves  from  labor  in  our  own  days. 

I  serve  men  by  my  activity  in  state  or  church,  — as  king, 
minister,  archbishop;  I  serve  men  by  my  trading  or  by  in- 
dustry ;  I  serve  men  by  my  activity  in  the  departments  of 
science  or  art. 

By  our  activities  we  are  all  as  necessary  to  the  people  as 
they  are  to  us. 

80  say  various  men  of  to-day,  who  have  freed  themselves 
from  laboring. 

Let  us  consider  seriatim  those  principles  upon  which  they 
base  the  usefulness  of  tlieir  activity. 

There  are  only  two  indications  of  the  usefulness  of  any 
activity  of  one  man  for  another:  an  exterior  indication, — 
tile  acknowledgment  of  the  utility  of  activity  by  those  to 
whom  it  is  produced  ;  and  an  interior  indication, — the  desire 
to  be  of  use  to  otliers  lying  at  the  root  of  the  activity  of  the 
one  who  is  trying  to  be  of  use. 

Statesmen  (I  include  the  Church  dignitaries  ai)[)uinted   liy 


148  -WUAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

the  govern ment  in  the  category  of  statesmen)  are  of  use  to 
those  Avhom  the}'  govern.  Tlie  emperor,  the  king,  the  pres- 
ident of  a  republic,  the  prime  minister,  the  minister  of  justice, 
the  minister  of  war,  the  minister  of  public  instruction,  the 
bishop,  and  all  under  them,  ^\\ю  serve  the  state,  all  live, 
having  freed  themselves  from  the  struggle  of  mankind  for 
existence,  and  having  laid  all  the  burden  of  this  struggle  upon 
other  men,  upon  the  ground  that  their  non-activity  compen- 
sates for  this. 

Let  us  appl}'  the  first  indication  to  those  for  whose  welfare 
the  activity  of  statesmen  is  bestowed.  Do  they,  I  ask,  rec- 
ognize the  usefulness  of  this  activity'? 

Yes,  it  is  recognized  :  most  men  consider  statesmanship 
necessary  to  them  ;  the  majorit}-  recognize  the  usefulness  of 
this  activity'  in  principle  ;  but  in  all  its  manifestations  as 
known  to  us,  in  all  particular  cases  as  known  to  us,  the  use- 
fulness of  each  of  the  institutions  and  of  each  of  the  mani- 
festations of  this  actiA'ity  is  not  only  denied,  by  those  for 
whose  advantage  it  is  performed,  but  they  assert  that  this 
activity  is  even  pernicious  and  hurtful.  There  is  no  state 
function  or  social  activit}'  which  is  not  considered  by  many 
men  to  be  hurtful :  there  is  no  institution  which  is  not  con- 
sidered pernicious, — courts  of  justice,  banks,  local  self-gov- 
ernment, police,  clergy.  Every  state  activity,  fi'om  the 
minister  down  to  the  policeman,  from  the  bishop  to  the  sex- 
ton, is  considered  b}'  some  men  to  be  useful,  and  b}'  others 
to  be  pernicious.  And  this  is  the  case,  not  only  in  Eussia, 
but  throughout  the  world,  in  France  as  well  as  in  America. 

All  the  activity  of  the  republican  party  is  considered  per- 
nicious In'  the  radical  party,  and  vice  versa :  all  the  actiA'ity 
of  the  radical  party,  if  the  power  is  in  their  hands,  is  con- 
sidered bad  by  the  republican  and  other  parties.  But  not 
only  is  it  a  fact  that  the  activit}'  of  statesmen  is  пел'ег  con- 
sidered b}'  all  men  to  be  useful,  their  activity  has,  besides, 
this  peculiarity,  that  it  must  always  be  carried  out  b}-  vio- 
lence, and  that,  in  order  to  attain  this  end,  there  are  necessary, 
murders,  executions,  prisons,  taxes  raised  b}'  force,  and  so 
on. 

It  therefore  appears,  that  besides  the  fact  that  the  useful- 
ness of  state  activit}'  is  not  recognized  by  all  men.  and  is 
always  denied  by  one  portion  of  men,  this  usefulness  has 
the  peculiarity  of  vindicating  itself  always  b}'  violence. 

And  therefore  the  usefulness  of  state  activity  cannot  be 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  149 

confirmed  by  the  fact  thut  it  is  recognized  by  tliose  men  for 
whom  it  is  performed. 

Let  us  apply  the  second  test :  let  us  a,sk  statesmen  them- 
selves, from  the  tsar  down  to  the  policeman,  from  the  presi- 
dent to  the  secretary,  from  the  patriarch  to  the  sexton, 
begging  for  a  sincere  answer,  Avhether,  in  occupying  their 
respective  positions,  they  have  in  view  the  good  which  they 
wish  to  do  for  men,  or  something  else.  In  their  desire  to  lill 
the  situation  of  a  tsar,  a  president,  a  minister,  a  police- 
sergeant,  a  sexton,  a  teacher,  are  the}'  moved  by  the 
desire  of  being  useful  to  men,  or  for  their  own  personal 
advantage?  And  the  answer  of  sincere  men  would  be,  that 
their  chief  motive  is  their  own  personal  advantage. 

And  so  it  appears  that  one  class  of  men,  who  utilize  the 
labor  of  others  who  perish  bv  their  labors,  compensate  for 
such  an  undoubted  evil  bj-  an  activity  which  is  always  con- 
sidered by  a  great  many  men  to  be  not  only  useless,  but 
pernicious  ;  which  cannot  be  voluntarily  accepted  by  men, 
but  to  which  they  must  alwa^'s  be  compelled,  and  the  aim  of 
which  is  not  the  benefit  of  othei's,  but  the  personal  advan- 
tage of  those  men  who  perform  it. 

What  is  it,  then,  that  confiims  the  theory  that  state  activity 
is  useful  for  men  ?  Onl}'  the  fact  that  those  men  who  per- 
form it,  firmly  believe  it  to  be  useful,  and  that  it  has  been 
alwa3's  in  existence  ;  but  so  have  always  been  not  only  use- 
less institutions,  but  very  pernicious  ones,  like  slavery, 
prostitution,  and  wars. 

business  people  (merchants,  manufacturers,  railway  pro- 
prietors, bankers,  land-owners)  believe  in  the  fact  that  they 
do  a  good  which  undoubtedly' compensates  for  the  harm  done 
by  them.  Upon  what  grounds  do  they  believe  it?  To  the 
question  by  whom  the  usefulness  of  their  activity  is  recog- 
nized, men  in  church  and  in  state  are  able  to  point  to  tlie 
thousands  and  millions  of  working-people  who  in  principle 
recognize  the  usefulness  of  state  and  church  activity  ;  but  to 
whom  will  bankers,  distillers,  manufacturers  of  velvet,  of 
bronzes,  of  looking-glasses,  to  say  nothing  of  guns, — to 
whom  will  thej'  point  when  we  ask  them  is  their  usefulness 
recognized  by  the  majority? 

Jf  there  can  bo  found  men  who  recognize  the  usefulness  of 
manufacturing  chintzes,  rails,  beer,  and  such  like  things, 
tiicrc  will  be  found  also  a  still  greater  number  of  men  who 
consider  the  manufacture  of  these  articles  pernicious. 


150  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

And  as  foi-  the  activity  of  merchants  who  raise  the  prices 
of  all  articles,  and  that  of  laud-owners,  nobody  would  even 
attempt  to  justify  it. 

Besides,  this  activity  is  always  associated  with  the  harm 
done  to  working-people  and  with  violence,  if  less  direct  than 
that  of  the  state,  yet  just  as  cruel  in  its  consequences  :  for 
the  activities  displayed  in  industry  and  in  trade  are  entirely 
based  upon  taking  advantage  of  the  wants  of  working-people 
in  every  form,  in  order  to  compel  workingmen  to  hard  and 
hated  labor  ;  to  buy  all  goods  cheap,  and  to  sell  to  the  people 
the  articles  necessary  for  them  at  the  highest  possible  price ; 
and  to  raise  the  interest  on  money.  P"'rom  whatever  point 
we  consider  their  activit}',  we  see  that  the  usefulness  of  Inisi- 
ness-men  is  not  recognized  by  those  for  whom  it  is  expended, 
neither  in  principle  nor  in  particular  cases ;  and  by  the 
majorit}'  their  activity  is  considered  to  be  directly  i)ernicious. 
If  we  were  to  apply  the  second  test,  and  to  ask.  What  is  the 
chief  motive  of  the  activity  of  business-men?  we  should 
receive  a  still  more  determinate  answer  than  that  on  the 
activit}'  of  statesmen. 

If  a  statesman  says  that  besides  a  personal  advantage  he 
has  in  view  the  common  benefit,  we  cannot  help  believing 
him,  ami  each  of  us  knows  such  men  ;  but  a  business-man, 
from  the  very  nature  of  his  occu[)ations,  cannot  have  in  view 
a  common  advantage,  and  would  be  ridiculous  in  the  sight  of 
his  fellows  if  he  were  in  his.  business  aiming  at  something 
besides  the  increasing  of  his  own  wealth  and  the  keeping  of 
it.  And,  therefore,  working-people  do  not  consider  the 
activity  of  business-men  of  any  help  to  them.  Their 
activity  is  associated  with  violence  towards  such  people  ;  and 
its  object  is  not  their  good,  but  always  and  onl}'  personal 
advantage  ;  and  lo !  strange  to  say,  these  business-men  are 
so  assured  of  their  own  usefulness  that  they  boldly,  for  the 
sake  of  this  imaginary  good,  do  an  undoubted,  obvious  harm 
to  workingmen  by  extricating  themselves  from  laboring,  and 
consuming  the  labor  of  the  working-classes.  Men  of  science 
and  of  art  have  freed  themselves  from  laboring  by  putting 
this  labor  on  others,  and  live  with  a  quiet  conscience,  think- 
ing they  bring  a  sufficient  advantage  to  other  men  to  com- 
pensate for  it. 

On  what  is  their  assurance  based?  Let  us  ask  them  as  we 
have  done  statesmen  and  business-men. 

Is  the  utility  of  the  arts  and  sciences  recognized  by  all,  or 
even  ])y  the  majorit}',  of  working-people? 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  151 

"We  shall  гесегл'е  a  very  deplorable  answer.  The  activity 
of  men  in  church  and  state  is  recognized  to  be  useful  in 
theory  b}^  almost  all,  and  in  application  by  the  majority  of 
those  for  Avhom  it  is  performed  ;  the  activity  of  business-men 
is  recognized  as  useful  by  a  small  number  of  working-people  ; 
but  the  activity  of  men  of  science  and  of  art  is  not  recog- 
nized to  be  useful  b}'  any  of  the  working-class.  The  useful- 
ness of  their  activity  is  recognized  only  by  those  who  are 
engaged  in  it,  or  who  desire  to  practise  it.  Those  who  bear 
upon  their  shoulders  all  the  labor  of  life,  and  who  feed  and 
clothe  the  men  of  science  and  art,  cannot  recognize  the  useful- 
ness of  the  activity  of  these  men,  because  they  cannot  even 
form  any  idea  about  an  activity  which  alwa3's  appears  to 
workingmen  useless  and  even  depraving. 

Thus,  without  any  exception,  working-people  think  the 
same  of  univx'rsities.  libraries,  conservatories,  picture  and 
statue  galleries,  and  theatres,  which  are  built  at  their  expense. 

A  workingman  considers  this  activit}'  to  be  so  decidedly 
pernicious  that  he  does  not  send  his  children  to  be  taught ; 
and  in  order  to  compel  peo[)le  to  accept  this  activity,  it  has 
been  everywhere  found  necessary  to  introduce  a  law  com- 
pelling parents  to  send  the  children  to  school. 

A  workingman  always  looks  at  this  activity  with  ill-will, 
and  only  ceases  to  look  at  it  so  when  he  ceases  to  be  a  work- 
ingman, and  having  saved  money,  and  been  educated,  he 
passes  out  of  the  class  of  working-people  into  the  class  of 
men  who  live  upon  the  necks  of  others. 

And  notwithstanding  the  fact  that  the  usefulness  of  the 
activity  of  men  of  science  and  art  is  not  recognized,  and  even 
cannot  be  recognized,  b}-  any  лтогктап,  these  men  are  all  the 
same  compelled  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  such  an  activity. 

A  statesman  simply  sends  another  to  the  guillotine  or  to 
prison  ;  a  business-man,  utilizing  the  labor  of  another,  takes 
away  from  him  his  last  resource,  leaving  Iiim  the  alternative 
of  starvation,  or  labor  destructive  of  his  health  and  life  :  but 
a  man  of  science  or  of  art  seemingly  compels  nobody  to  do 
any  thing  ;  he  merely  offers  the  good  he  has  done  to  those  who 
are  willing  to  take  it ;  but,  in  order  to  be  able  to  make  his 
productions  undesiral)le  to  the  working-people,  he  takes 
away  from  the  people,  by  violence,  throngli  the  statesmen, 
the  greatest  part  of  their  labor  for  the  building  and  keeping 
oi)en  of  academics,  universities,  colleges,  schools,  museums, 
lil)raries,  conservatories,  and  for  the  wages  for  himself  and 
his  fellows. 


152  WHAT  MUST    WE   T)0    THEN? 

But  if  we  were  to  ask  men  of  science  and  art  al)oiit  the 
object  which  they  are  pursuiiio;  in  their  activity,  we  slionld 
receive  the  most  astonishing  rci^ies. 

A  statesman  would  answer  that  his  aim  was  tlie  common 
welfare  ;  and  in  his  answer,  there  would  be  an  admixture  of 
ti'uth  confirmed  by  public  opinion. 

In  the  answer  of  the  business-man,  that  his  aim  was  sooi-d 
welfare,  there  would  be  less  probability  ;  but  we  could  admit 
even  this  also. 

But  the  answer  of  men  of  science  and  art  strikes  one  at 
once  by  its  want  of  proof  and  by  its  effrontery.  .Such  men 
say,  without  bringing  any  proofs,  just  as  priests  used  to  do 
in  olden  times,  that  their  activity  is  the  most  important  of 
all,  and  the  most  necessar}^  for  all  men,  and  that  without  it 
all  mankind  would  go  to  ruin.  They  assert  that  it  is  so, 
notwithstanding  the  fact  that  nobody  except  they  themselves 
eitlier  understands  or  acknowledges  their  activit}',  and  not- 
withstanding the  fact  that,  according  to  their  own  definition, 
true  science  and  true  art  should  not  have  a  utilitarian  aim. 

These  men  are  occupied  with  the  matter  they  like,  without 
troubling  themselves  what  advantage  will  come  out  of  it  to 
men  ;  and  they  are  always  assured  that  the}'  are  doing  the 
most  important  thing,  and  the  most  necessar}'  for  all  man- 
kind. 

So  that  while  a  sincere  statesman,  acknowledging  that  the 
chief  motive  of  his  activity  is  a  [)ersonal  one,  tries  to  be  as 
useful  as  possible  t(^  the  working-people  ;  while  a  business- 
man, acknowledging  the  egotism  of  his  activity,  tries  to 
give  it  an  appearance  of  being  one  of  universal  utility,  — 
men  of  science  and  art  do  not  consider  it  necessary  to  seem 
to  shelter  themselves  under  a  pretence  of  usefulness  :  they 
deny  even  the  object  of  usefulness,  so  sure  are  they,  not 
oidy  of  the  usefulness,  but  even  of  the  sacredness,  of  their 
own  business. 

And  now  it  turns  out  that  the  third  class  of  men,  who 
have  freed  themselves  from  labor,  and  have  laid  it  on  other 
men,  are  occupied  with  things  which  are  totally  incompre- 
hensible to  working-people,  and  Avhich  these  people  consider 
to  be  trirtes,  and  often  very  pernicious  trifles;  and  are  occu- 
pied with  these  things  without  any  consideration  of  their 
usefulness,  but  merely  for  the  gratification  of  their  own 
pleasure :  it  turns  out  that  these  men  are.  from  some  reason 
or  other,  quite  assured  that  their  activity  will  always  produce 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  153 

that  without  which  working-people  would  never  be  able  to 
exist. 

Men  have  freed  themselves  from  laboring  for  their  living, 
and  have  thrown  the  work  upon  others,  who  perish  under  it : 
the}'  utilize  this  labor,  and  assert  that  their  occupations,  which 
are  incomprehensible  to  all  other  men,  and  which  are  not 
directed  to  useful  aims,  compensate  for  all  the  evil  they  are 
doing  to  men  by  freeing  themselves  from  the  labor  of  earn- 
ing their  livelihood,  and  swallowing  up  the  labor  of  others. 

The  statesman,  in  order  to  compensate  for  that  undoubted 
and  obvious  evil  which  he  does  to  man  by  freeing  himsi'lf 
from  the  struggle  with  nature,  and  by  appropriating  the 
labor  of  others,  does  men  another  obvious  and  undoubted 
harm  by  countenancing  all  sorts  of  violence. 

The  business-man,  in  order  to  compensate  for  that  un- 
dou!)ted  and  ol)vious  harm  which  he  does  to  men  by  using 
u[)  their  labor,  tries  to  earn  for  himself  as  much  wealth  as 
possible ;  that  is,  as  much  of  other  men's  labor  as  pos- 
sible. 

The  man  of  science  and  art,  in  compensating  for  the 
same  undoubted  and  obvious  harm  which  he  dix's  to  working- 
pco|)le,  is  occu[)ied  with  matters  to  which  he  feels  attracted, 
and  which  is  quite  incom[)reliensible  to  working-people,  and 
which,  according  to  his  own  assertion,  in  order  to  be  a  true 
one,  ought  not  to  aim  at  usefulness. 

And  therefore,  all  these  men  are  quite  sure  that  their 
right  of  utilizing  other  men's  labor  is  secure.  Yet  it  seems 
()l)vious  that  all  those  men  who  have  freed  themselves  from 
the  labor  of  earning  their  livelihood  have  no  ground  for 
doing  this. 

But,  strange  to  say,  these  men  firmly  believe  in  their  own 
]-ighteousness,  and  live  as  they  do  with  an  easy  conscience. 
There  must  be  some  plausible  ground,  some  false  belief,  at 
the  bottom  of  such  a  profound  error. 


XXVIII. 

And,  in  reality,  the  position  in  which  men,  living  b}^  other 
men's  labor,  are  placed,  is  l)ased,  not  only  upon  a  certain 
belief,  but  upon  an  entire  docti'ine  ;  and  not  only  on  one 
doctrine,  l)ut  on  three,  which  have  giown  one  upon  another 
duiing  centuries,  and  are  now  fused  together  into  an  awful 


154  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    TUENf 

deceit,  or  humbug  as  the  English  cull  it,  which  hides  from 
men  tiieir  unrighteousness. 

Tlie  oldest  ot  these  in  our  world,  whicii  justifies  the  treason 
of  men  against  the  fundamental  duty  of  labor  to  earn  their 
livelihood,  was  the  Church-Christian  doctrine,  according  to 
which  men,  by  the  will  of  God,  differ  one  from  another,  as 
the  suu  differs  from  the  moon  and  the  stars,  and  as  one  star 
differs  from  another.  Some  men  God  ordains  to  have  domin- 
ion over  all ;  others  to  have  power  over  many  ;  others,  still, 
over  a  few ;  and  the  remainder  are  ordained  by  God  to 
obey. 

This  doctrine,  though  already  shaken  to  its  foundations, 
still  continues  to  iufiueuce  some  men.  so  that  many  who  do 
not  accept  it,  who  often  even  ignore  the  existence  of  it,  are, 
nevertheless,  guided  by  it. 

The  second  is  what  I  cannot  help  terming  the  State-philo- 
sophical doctrine.  According  to  it,  as  fully  developed  by 
Hegel,  all  that  exists  is  reasonable,  and  the  established  order 
of  life  is  constant  and  sustained,  not  merel}'  by  men,  but  as 
the  only  possible  form  of  the  manifestation  of  the  spirit,  or, 
generall}',  of  the  life  of  mankind. 

This  doctrine,  too.  is  no  longer  accepted  b}"  men  who  direct 
social  opinion,  and  it  holds  its  position  only  by  the  propert}' 
of  inertia. 

Tlie  last  doctrine,  Avhich  is  now  ruling  the  minds  of  men, 
and  on  which  is  based  the  justification  as  well  of  leading 
statesmen  as  also  of  leading  men  of  business  and  of  science 
and  art,  is  a  scientific  one,  not  in  the  evident  sense  of  the 
word,  meaning  knowledge  generally,  but  in  the  sense  of  a 
knowledge  peculiar  in  form  as  well  as  in  matter,  termed  sci- 
ence in  particular.  On  this  new  doctrine  particularly  is 
based  in  our  days  the  justification  of  man's  idleness,  hiding 
from  him  his  treason  against  his  calling. 

This  new  doctrine  appeared  in  Europe  contemporaneously 
with  a  large  class  of  rich  and  idle  people,  who  served  neither 
the  church  nor  the  state,  and  who  were  in  лvant  of  a  justifi- 
cation of  their  position. 

Not  very  long  ago  in  France,  before  the  revolution  in  En- 
rope,  it  was  always  the  case  that  all  non-working  people,  in 
order  to  have  a  right  to  utilize  other  men's  labor,  were 
obliged  to  have  some  definite  occupation,  —  to  serve  in  the 
church,  the  state,  or  the  army. 

Men  who  served   the  government,  governed  the  people ; 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  155 

those  who  served  the  church,  taught  the  people  divine  truths  ; 
and  those  who  served  the  army,  protected  the  people. 

Only  these  three  classes  of  men  —  the  cleroy,  the  states- 
men, and  the  military  men  —  claimed  for  themselves  the 
right  of  utilizing  workingmen's  labor,  and  the}'  could  always 
point  out  their  services  to  the  people  :  the  remaining  lich 
men,  who  had  not  this  justification,  were  despised,  and,  feel- 
ing tlieir  own  want  of  right,  were  ashamed  of  their  wealth 
and  of  their  idleness.  But  as  time  went  on,  this  class  of  rich 
people,  who  did  not  belong  either  to  the  clerg\-,  to  the  gov- 
ernment, or  to  the  arm}',  owing  to  the  vices  of  these  three 
classes,  increased  in  number,  and  became  a  powerful  party. 
They  were  in  want  of  a  justification  of  their  position.  And 
one  was  invented  for  them.  A  century  had  not  elapsed  when 
the  men  who  did  not  serve  either  the  state  or  the  church, 
and  who  took  no  part  whatever  in  their  affairs,  received  the 
same  right  to  live  by  other  men's  labor  as  the  former  classes  ; 
and  they  not  only  left  off  being  ashamed  of  their  wealth  and 
idleness,  but  began  to  consider  their  position  quite  justified. 
And  tiie  number  of  such  men  has  increased,  and  is  still  in- 
creasing in  our  days. 

And  the  most  wonderful  of  all  is  this,  that  these  men,  the 
same  whose  claims  to  be  freed  from  lal)()ring  were  unrecog- 
nized not  long  ago,  now  consider  tliemselves  alone  to  be  fully 
right,  and  are  attacking  the  foi'mer  three  classes,  —  the  ser- 
vants of  the  church,  state,  and  army,  —  alleging  their  exemp- 
tion from  labor  to  be  be  unjust,  and  often  even  considering 
their  activity  to  be  directly  pernicious.  And  what  is  still 
more  wonderful  is  this,  that  the  former  servants  of  church, 
state,  and  army,  do  not  now  lean  upon  the  divineness  of 
their  calling,  nor  even  upon  the  philosophy  which  considers 
tlie  state  necessary  for  individual  development,  but  they  set 
aside  these  supports  Avliich  have  so  long  maintained  them, 
and  are  now  seeking  the  same  supports  on  svhich  the  пелу 
reigning  class  of  men,  who  have  found  a  novel  justification, 
stands,  and  at  the  head  of  which  are  the  men  of  science 
and  art. 

If  a  statesman  now  sometimes,  appealing  to  old  memories, 
justifies  his  position  l)y  the  fact  that  he  was  set  in  it  by  God, 
or  l)y  the  fact  that  the  state  is  a  form  of  the  development  of 
personality,  he  does  it  because  he  is  behind  the  age,  and  he 
feels  tliat  nobody  believes  him. 

In  order  to  justify  himself  effectually,  he  ought  to  find  now 


156  WHAT  3IUST   WE  DO    THEN? 

neither  theological  nor  pliilosophieal,  but  other  new,  scien- 
tiiic  supports. 

It  is  necessary  to  point  to  tlie  principle  of  nationalities,  op 
to  that  of  the  development  of  an  organism  ;  and  to  gain  over 
the  ruling  class,  as  in  the  Middle  Ages,  it  was  necessary  to 
gain  over  the  clergy  ;  and  as  at  the  end  of  tlie  last  century, 
it  was  necessary  to  obtain  the  sanction  of  philosoi)hers,  as 
seen  in  the  case  of  Frederick  the  Great  and  Catherine  of 
Russia.  If  now  a  rich  man,  after  the  old  fashion,  says 
sometimes  that  it  is  God's  providence  which  makes  him  rich, 
or  if  he  points  to  the  importance  of  a  nobility  for  the  welfare 
of  a  state,  he  does  it  because  he  is  behind  the  times. 

In  order  to  justify  himself  completel}',  he  must  point  to  his 
furtliering  progress  and  civilization  by  improving  the  modes 
of  production,  by  lowering  the  prices  of  consumption,  by 
establishing  an  intercourse  between  nations.  A  rich  man 
ought  to  think  and  to  si)eak  in  scientific  language,  and,  as 
the  clergy  formerly,  he  has  to  offer  sacrifices  to  the  ruling 
class :  he  must  publish  magazines  and  books,  provide  him- 
self with  a  pictiu'e-galler}',  a  musical  society,  a  kindergarten 
or  a  teciuiical  school.  The  ruling  class  is  the  class  of  learned 
men  and  artists  of  a  definite  character.  They  possess  com- 
plete justification  for  having  freed  themselves  from  laboring  ; 
and  upon  this  justification  (as  in  former  times  upon  the 
theological  justification,  and  afterwards  upon  the  philosophical 
one)  all  is  based:  and  it  is  these  men  who  now  give  the 
diploma  of  exemption  to  other  classes. 

Tlie  class  of  men  wlio  now  feel  completely  justified  in  free- 
ing themselves  from  labor,  is  that  of  men  of  science,  and 
particularly  of  experimental,  positive,  critical,  evolutional 
science,  and  of  artists  who  develop  their  ideas  according  to 
this  tendency. 

If  a  learned  man  or  an  artist,  after  the  old  fashion,  speaks 
nowadays  about  prophecy',  revelation,  or  the  manifestation 
of  the  si)irit,  he  does  so  because  he  is  behind  the  age,  but  lie 
will  not  succeed  in  justifying  himself :  in  order  to  stand  firm 
he  must  try  to  associate  his  activity  with  experimental,  posi- 
tive, critical  science,  and  he  must  make  this  science  the 
fundamental  principle  of  his  activity.  Then  only  would  the 
science  or  the  art  with  which  he  is  occupied  appear  to  be  a 
true  one,  and  he  would  then  stand  in  our  days  on  firm  ground, 
and  then  will  there  be  no  doubt  as  to  the  usefulness  he  is 
bringing  to  mankind.     The  justification  of  all  those  who  have 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN?  157 

freed  themselves  from  laboring  is  based  upon  experimental, 
critical,  positive  science. 

The  theological  and  philosophical  explanations  have  already 
had  their  day :  they  timitlly  and  bashfiiU}'  now  introduce 
themselves  to  notice,  and  try  to  humor  their  scientific  usurper, 
which,  however,  boldly  knocks  down  and  destroys  the  rem- 
nants of  the  past,  everywhere  taking  its  place,  and  with  assur- 
ance in  its  own  firmness  lifts  aloft  its  head. 

Tlie  theological  justification  maintained  that  men  b}'  their 
destination  are  called,  —  some  to  govern,  others  to  obey; 
some  to  live  sumptuously,  others  to  lal)or :  and  therefore 
those  Avho  believed  in  the  revelation  of  God  could  not  doubt 
the  lawfulness  of  the  position  of  those  men,  who,  according 
to  the  will  of  God,  are  called  to  govern  and  to  be  rich. 

The  state-philosophical  justification  used  to  saj^  The  state 
with  all  its  institutions  and  differences  of  classes,  according 
to  rights  and  possessions,  is  that  historical  form  which  is 
necessary  for  the  right  manifestation  of  the  spirit  in  man- 
kind ;  and  therefore  the  situation  which  ел-егу  one  occupies 
in  state  and  in  society  according  to  his  rights  and  to  his  pos- 
sessions must  be  sucli  as  to  insure  the  sound  life  of  mankind. 

The  sciottific  theory  says,  All  this  is  nonsense  and  super- 
stition :  the  one  is  the  fruit  of  the  theological  period  of 
thought,  and  the  other  of  the  metaphysical  period. 

For  the  study  of  the  laws  of  the  life  of  human  societies, 
there  is  ojily  one  sure  method,  —  that  of  a  positive,  experi- 
mental, critical  science.  It  is  onlj'  sociology  based  upon 
liiology.  l)ased  again  upon  all  other  positive  sciences,  which 
is  able  to  give  us  new  laws  of  the  life  of  mankind.  Man- 
kind, or  human  societies,  are  organisms  either  already  perfect, 
or  in  a  state  of  development  subject  to  all  the  laws  of  the 
evolution  of  organisms.  One  of  the  first  of  these  laAvs  is  the 
division  of  labor  among  the  portions  of  the  organs.  If  some 
men  govern,  and  others  obey,  some  live  in  opulence,  and  others 
in  want,  tlien  this  takes  place,  neither  according  to  the  will  of 
God.  nor  because  tlie  state  is  the  form  of  the  manifestation  of 
personality,  but  because  in  societies  as  in  organisms  a  division 
of  labor  takes  place  which  is  necessary  for  the  life  of  the 
Avliole.  Some  men  perform  in  societies  the  muscular  part  of 
labor,  and  others  the  mental. 

Upon  tliis  doctrine  is  built  the  iiiling  excuse  of  the  age. 


158  WHAT  MU6T    WE  DO    THEN  I 


XXIX. 

Christ  teaches  men  in  a  new  way,  and  this  teaching  is 
written  down  in  the  Gospels. 

Jt  is  lirst  persecuted,  and  tlien  accepted  ;  and  upon  it  at 
once  a  complete  system  of  theological  dogma  is  invented, 
which  is  thereafter  accepted  for  the  teaching  of  Christ.  The 
system  is  absurd,  it  has -no  foundation  ;  but  by  virtue  of  it, 
men  are  led  to  believe  that  they  may  continue  to  live  in  an 
evil  way,  and  none  the  less  be  Christians.  And  this  con- 
clusion is  so  agreeable  to  the  mass  of  weak  men,  who  have 
no  affection  for  moral  effort,  that  the  system  is  eagerly  ac- 
cepted, not  only  as  true,  but  even  as  the  Divine  truth  as 
revealed  by  God  himself.  And  the  invention  becomes  the 
groundwork  on  which  for  centuries  theologians  build  their 
theories. 

Then  by  degrees  these  learned  men  diverge  by  various 
•channels  into  special  systems  of  their  own,  and  finally  en- 
deavor to  overthrow  each  other's  theories.  They  begin  to 
feel  tliere  is  something  amiss,  and  cease  to  understand  what 
they  themselves  are  talking  about.  But  the  crowd  still 
requires  them  to  expound  its  favorite  instruction  ;  and  thus 
the  theologians,  pretending  both  to  understand  and  believe 
what  they  are  saying,  continue  to  dispense  it. 

In  process  of  time,  however,  the  conclusions  dra,wn  from 
theological  conceptions  cease  to  be  necessar}'  to  the  masses, 
who,  then,  peeping  into  the  very  sanctuaries  of  their  augurs, 
discover  them  to  be  utterly  \o\(X  of  those  glorious  and  indu- 
bitable truths  which  the  m3'steries  of  theology  had  seemed  to 
suggest. 

The  same  happened  to  pliilosoph}',  not  in  the  sense  of  the 
wisdom  of  men  like  Confucius  or  Kpictetus,  but  with  profes- 
sional i)hilosoi)hy,  Avlien  it  humored  the  instincts  of  the  crowd 
of  lich  and  idle  people.  Not  long  ago  in  the  learned  Avorld, 
a  moral  philosoi)hy  was  in  fashion,  according  to  Avhich  it  ap- 
peared that  every  thing  that  is,  is  reasonable  ;  that  there  is 
neither  good  nor  evil ;  that  man  has  not  to  struggle  with  evil, 
but  has  merel}^  to  manifest  the  spirit,  some  in  military  ser- 
\'ice,  some  in  courts  of  justice,  and  some  on  the  violin. 

Many  and  various  were  the  expressions  of  human  wisdom, 
and  as  such  were  known  to  the  men  of  the  nineteenth  cen- 
tury, —  Rousseau,  Pascal,  Lessing,  and  Si)int)za  ;  and  all  tiie 


WHAT  MUST    WE   BO    THEN?  159 

wisdom  of  antiquity  was  expounded,  but  none  of  its  systems 
laid  liold  of  the  crowd.  We  cannot  say  that  Hegel's  success 
was  due  to  the  harmony  of  his  theor}'.  We  had  no  less 
harmonious  theories  from  Descartes,  Leibnitz,  Fichte,  and 
»Schoi)enhauer. 

There  was  only  one  reason  for  the  fact  that  this  doctrine 
became  for  a  short  time  the  belief  of  the  civilized  world,  the 
same  which  had  caused  the  success  of  theology  ;  to  wit,  that 
tlie  deductions  of  this  philosophical  theory  humored  the 
weak  side  of  men's  nature.  It  said,  All  is  reasonable,  all 
is  good  ;  nobody  is  to  blame  for  any  thing. 

And  as  at  first  with  the  church  upon  theological  founda- 
tions, so  also,  with  the  philosophy  of  Hegel  for  a  base,  a 
Babel's  tower  was  built  (some  who  are  behind  the  age,  are 
still  sitting  upon  it)  ;  and  here  again  was  a  confusion  of 
tongues,  men  feeling  that  they  themselves  did  not  know  of 
what  they  were  talking,  but  trying  to  conceal  their  ignorance, 
and  to  keep  their  prestige  before  the  crowd. 

When  I  began  life,  Hegelianism  was  the  order  of  the  day  ; 
it  was  in  the  very  air  you  breathed  ;  it  found  its  expression 
in  newspapers  and  magazines,  in  lectni'es  upon  histor}'  and 
u[)on  law,  in  novels,  in  tracts,  in  art,  in  sermons,  in  conver- 
sation. A  man  who  did  not  know  Hegel,  had  no  right  to 
open  his  mouth  ;  those  who  desired  to  learn  the  truth,  were 
studying  Hegel,  —  every  thing  pointed  to  him;  and  lo ! 
foity  years  have  elapsed,  and  nothing  is  left  of  him  ;  there  is 
no  remembrance  of  him  ;  all  is  as  though  he  had  never  ex- 
isted. And  the  most  remarkable  of  all  is,  that  as  false 
Christianity,  so  also  Hegelianism  has  fallen,  not  because 
some  one  had  refuted  or  overthrown  it ;  no,  it  is  now  as  it 
was  Ijefore,  l)ut  both  have  only  become  no  longer  necessary 
for  the  learned,  educated  world. 

If,  at  the  present  time,  any  man  of  culture  is  questioned 
a1)out  the  system  of  theological  dogma,  he  will  neither  contra- 
dict nor  argue,  but  will  simply  ask,  "  Wh}'  should  I  believe 
these  dogmas?  "  —  "  What  good  are  they  to  me?  " 

So  also  with  Hegelianism.  No  one  of  our  day  will  argue 
its  theses.  He  will  only  inquire,  ''  What  Spirit?  "  "  Where 
did  it  come  from?"  ''With  what  purpose?"  "What  good 
will  it  do  me?"  Not  very  long  ago  the  sages  of  Hege- 
lianism were  solemnly  teaching  the  croAvd  ;  and  the  crowd, 
understanding  nothing,  blindly  believed  all,  finding  the 
confirmation   of   what  suited  them,  and  thinking  that  what 


IGO  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

seemed  to  them  to  be  not  quite  clear  or  even  contradictory, 
ou  the  heiglits  of  philosophy  was  clearer  tluiii  day  :  but 
time  went  ou,  the  theor}^  was  worn  out,  a  new  one  appeared 
in  its  place,  the  former  oue  was  no  longer  demanded,  and 
again  the  crowd  looked  into  the  m3"sterious  temples  of  the 
augurs,  and  saw  there  was  nothing  tliere,  and  that  notliing 
had  ever  been  there  but  words,  very  dark  and  nK-auiiigk^ss. 

(This  happened  within  ni}'^  memory.)  Tiiese  tilings 
hap[)ened,  we  are  told,  because  they  were  ravings  of  the 
theological  and  metaphysical  period ;  but  now  луе  have  a 
critical,  positive  science,  which  will  not  deceive  us,  because 
it  is  based  upon  induction  and  experience.  Now  our  knowl- 
edge is  no  longer  uncertain  as  it  formerly  was,  and  it  is 
only  by  following  it  that  oue  can  find  the  answer  to  all  the 
questions  of  life. 

But  this  is  exactly  the  same  that  was  said  b}^  the  old 
teachers,  and  they  certainly  were  no  fools,  and  we  know 
that  among  them  were  men  of  immense  intellect ;  and  within 
my  memory  the  disciples  of  Ilegel  said  exactly  the  same 
thing,  with  no  less  assurance  and  no  less  acknowledgment 
on  the  side  of  the  crowd  of  so-called  educated  people.  And 
such  men  as  our  Herzen,  Stankievich,  Byelinsky,  were  no 
fools  either.  But  why,  then,  has  this  wonderful  thing  hap- 
pened that  clever  men  preached  with  the  greatest  assurance, 
and  the  crowd  accepted  with  л'eueration  such  groundless 
and  meaningless  doctrines?  Tiie  reason  of  it  is  only  that 
these  doctrines  justified  men  in  their  bad  mode  of  living. 

A  very  commonplace  P^nglish  writer,  whose  books  are 
now  almost  forgotten,  and  recognized  as  the  emptiest  of 
all  empt}'  ones,  wrote  a  tract  upon  population,  in  which  he 
invented  an  imaginar}'  law  that  the  means  of  living  does 
not  increase  with  increase  of  [)oi)ulatiou.  This  sham  law 
the  author  dressed  out  with  formulaj  of  mathematics,  whicii 
have  no  foundation  whatever,  and  [)ublished  it.  Judged 
by  the  lightness  of  mind  and  the  want  of  talent  disi)layed 
in  this  treatise,  we  might  suppose  that  it  would  have  passed 
unnoticed,  and  been  forgotten  as  all  other  writings  of  the 
same  author  have  been  ;  l)ut  it  turned  out  quite  differently. 
The  author  who  wrote  it  became  at  once  a  scientitic  au- 
thority, and  has  maintained  this  high  position  for  nearly 
half  a  century.  Malthus  !  The  iMalthusian  theory, — the 
law  of  the  increase  of  population  \n  geometrical  progression, 
and  the  increase  of  means- of  living  in  arithmetical  [)rogres- 


WUAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  161 

sion,  and  the  natural  and  prudent  means  of  restraining  the 
increase  of  population,  —  all  these  became  scientilic,  un- 
doubted truths  which  have  never  been  verified,  but,  being 
accepted  as  axioms,  have  served  for  further  deductions. 

Thus  learned,  educated  men  were  deceived ;  Avhereas 
in  the  crowd  of  idle  men,  there  was  a  devout  trust  in  the 
great  laws,  discovered  by  Malthus.  How,  then,  did  this  hap- 
pen? These  seem  to  be  scientific  deductions,  which  hatl 
nothing  in  common  Avith  the  instincts  of   the  crowd. 

But  this  is  so  only  to  those  who  believe  science  to  be  some- 
thing self-existent,  liice  the  Church,  not  liable  to  errors,  and 
not  merely  the  thoughts  of  weak  men  liable  to  mistakes,  who 
only  for  importance'  sake  call  by  a  pompous  word,  science, 
their  own  thoughts  and  words.  It  was  only  necessary  to 
draw  practical  conclusions  from  the  Malthusiau  theory  in 
order  to  see  that  it  was  quite  a  human  one  with  very  de- 
terminate aims. 

The  deductions  which  followed  directly  from  this  theory 
were  the  following :  The  miserable  condition  of  working- 
people  does  not  come  from  the  crueltj',  egotism,  and  un- 
reasonableness of  rich  and  strong  men,  but  it  exists  according 
to  an  unchangeable  law  which  does  not  depend  upon  man, 
and,  if  an3'body  is  to  blame,  it  is  the  starving  working- 
l)eople  themselves :  why  do  these  fools  come  into  the  Avorld 
when  the}^  know  that  they  will  not  have  enough  to  cat?  and 
therefore  the  wealthy  and  powerful  classes  are  not  at  all 
to  blame  for  any  thing,  and  they  may  quietl}'  continue  to 
live  as  they  have  done. 

This  conclusion,  precious  to  the  crowd  of  idle  men,  in- 
duced all  learned  men  to  overlook  the  incorrectness  and 
total  arljitrariness  of  the  deductions  ;  and  the  crowd  of  edu- 
cated idle  people,  instinctively  guessing  to  what  these 
deductions  led,  greeted  the  theory  with  delight,  set  ui)on 
it  the  seal  of  truth,  and  cherished  it  during  half  a  century. 
The  reason  for  all  this  Avas,  that  these  doctrines  justified 
men  in  their  bad  mode  of  life. 

Is  not  the  same  cause  at  the  bottom  of  the  self-assurance 
of  men  of  positive,  critical,  experimental  science,  and  of 
the  reverent  regard  of  the  crowd  to  what  they  preach?  At 
first  it  ai)pears  strange  that  the  theor}'  of  evolution  justifies 
men  in  their  unrighteousness,  and  that  the  scientilic  tiieoi-y 
has  only  to  do  with  facts,  and  does  nothing  else  than  observe 
facts.     But  it  only  seems  so. 


162  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

So  it  had  been  with  theological  teaching ;  theology 
seemed  to  be  occu[)ied  only  with  doctrines,  and  to  liave 
notliing  to  do  with  the  lives  of  men  :  so  it  had  been 
with  philosophy,  which  also  seemed  to  be  occupied  only  with 
facts. 

So  it  had  been  with  the  teaching  of  Hegel  on  a  large 
scale,  and  with  the  theory  of  Malthus  on  a  small  one. 
Hegelianism  seemed  to  be  occupied  merely  with  its  logical 
constructions,  and  to  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  lives  of 
men  ;  so  with  the  theory  of  Malthus,  which  seemed  to  be 
occupied  exclusively  with  statistics. 

But  it  only  seemed  so. 

Modern  science  is  also  occupied  exclusively  with  facts  :  it 
studies  facts. 

But  what  facts?     Why  such  facts,  and  not  others? 

The  men  of  modern  science  are  very  fond  of  speaking 
with  a  solemn  assurance,  ''  ^Уe  study  facts  alone,"  imagin- 
ing that  these  words  have  some  meaning. 

To  study  facts  alone  is  quite  impossible,  because  the  num- 
ber of  facts,  which  may  be  objects  of  our  study,  are  count- 
less, in  the  strict  sense  of  the  word. 

Before  beginning  to  study  facts,  one  must  have  some 
theory,  according  to  which  facts  are  studied  ;  that  is,  these 
or  those  being  selected  from  the  countless  number  of  facts. 
And  this  theory  indeed  exists,  and  is  even  very  definitely 
expressed,  though  many  of  the  agents  of  modern  science 
ignore  it ;  that  is,  do  not  Avant  to  know  it,  or  really  do  not 
know  it,  and  sometimes  i)retend  not  to  know  it. 

Thus  matters  stood  before  with  all  most  important  beliefs. 

The  foundations  of  each  are  always  given  in  theory  ;  and 
so-called  learned  men  seek  only  for  further  deductions  from 
various  foundations  given  to  them,  though  sometimes  ignor- 
ing even  these. 

But  a  fundamental  theory  must  always  be  present.  So 
is  it  also  now  :  modern  science  selects  its  facts  upon  the 
gi'ound  of  a  determinate  theory,  which  sometimes  it  knows, 
sometimes  does  not  wish  to  know,  sometimes  really  does  not 
know  ;  but  it  exists.  And  the  theory  is  this  :  All  mankind 
is  an  undying  organism  ;  men  are  particles  of  the  organs  of 
this  oi'ganism,  having  each  his  special  calling  for  the  service 
of  the  whole.  As  the  cells,  growing  into  an  organism,  divide 
among  th(Mnselves  the  labor  of  the  struggle  for  existence  of 
the   whole    organism,   increase    one  capacity,  and  diminish 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  163 

another,  and  all  together  form  an  organ  in  order  better  to  sat- 
isfy the  wants  of  the  whole  organism  ;  and  as  among  social 
animals, — auts  and  hees,  —  the  individuals  divide  the  lalior 
among  themselves  ((jueenbees  lay  eggs,  drone-bees  fecun- 
date, working-bees  labor  for  tlie  life  of  the  whole),  —  so  also 
in  mankind  and  in  hnmau  societies  there  takes  place  the 
same  differentiation  and  integration  of  the  parts.  And 
therefore,  in  order  to  find  the  law  of  man's  life,  we  must  study 
the  laws  of  the  lives  and  development  of  organisms.  And 
in  these  we  find  the  following  laws  :  That  each  phenomenon 
is  followed  by  more  than  one  consequence  ;  the  failure  of 
uniformity  ;  the  law  of  uniformity  and  diversity,  and  so  on. 
All  this  seems  to  be  very  innocent,  but  we  need  only  draw 
deductions  from  these  observations  of  facts  in  order  to  see 
at  once  to  what  they  are  tending. 

These  facts  lead  to  one  thing,  —  the  acknowledgment  that 
the  existence  in  human  societies  of  division  of  activities  is 
organic  ;  that  is,  necessary.  And  they  therefore  induce  us  to 
consider  the  unjust  position  in  which  we  are,  who  have  freed 
ourselves  from  laboring,  not  from  the  point  of  reasonable- 
ness and  justice,  but  merely  as  an  induljitable  fact  which 
confirms  a  general  law.  Moral  philosophy  used  also  to 
justify  ever}^  cruelty  and  wickedness  ;  but  there  it  turned  out 
to  be  i)hilosophical,  and  therefore  incorrect :  but  according  to 
science,  the  same  thing  turns  out  to  be  scientific,  and  therefore 
unquestionable. 

How,  then,  can  we  help  accepting  such  a  fine  theory  !  We 
need  onl}'  look  at  human  society  merely'  as  at  an  object  of 
oljservation,  and  we  may  quietly  devour  the  labor  of  perish- 
ing men,  calming  ourselves  Avith  the  idea  that  our  activity  as 
a  dancing-master,  a  lawyer,  a  doctor,  a  philosopher,  an 
actor,  an  investigator  of  the  theory  of  mediumism  and  of 
forms  of  atoms,  and  so  on,  is  a  functional  activity  of  the 
organism  of  mankind,  and  therefore  there  caimot  be  a  ques- 
tion whether  it  is  just  that  I  should  live  doing  only  what  is 
pleasant,  as  there  can  be  no  question  whether  the  division  of 
labor  between  a  mental  and  a  muscular  cell  is  just  or  not. 
How,  then,  can  we  help  accepting  sucli  a  nice  theory  Avhich 
enables  us  afterwards  forever  to  put  our  conscience  into  our 
pockets,  and  live  a  completely  unbridled,  animal  life,  feeling 
under  our  feet  a  firm,  scientific  support?  And  it  is  щюп  this 
new  belief  that  the  justification  of  idleness  and  the  cruelty 
of  men  is  built. 


164  WUAT  MUST    П'Е  no    TUEN  ? 


XXX. 

This  doctrine  had  its  commencement  about  half  a  century 
ago.  Its  chief  founder  was  the  French  philosopher  Comte. 
Corate,  being  a  lover  of  s^'stematie  theory,  and  at  the  s:une 
time  a  man  of  religious  tendency,  was  impressed  by  the  tiien 
new  physiological  researches  of  Bichat ;  and  he  conceived 
the  old  idea,  expressed  in  by-gone  days  by  Menenius 
Agrippa,  that  human  societies,  indeed  all  human-kind,  may 
be  regarded  as  one  whole,  an  organism  ;  and  men,  —  as  live 
particles  of  separate  organs,  each  having  his  definite 
destination  to  fulfil  in  the  service  of  the  whole  organism. 

Corate  was  so  fascinated  by  this  idea,  that  he  founded 
upon  it  his  philosophical  theor}' ;  and  this  theory  so  capti- 
vated him,  that  he  quite  forgot  that  the  point  of  departure 
he  had  started  from  was  no  more  than  a  pretty  comparison, 
suitable  enough  in  a  fable,  but  in  no  way  justifiable  as  the 
foundation  of  a  science.  As  often  happens,  he  took  his  pet 
hypothesis  for  an  axiom,  and  so  imagined  that  his  whole 
theor}^  was  based  upon  the  most  firm  and  positive 
foundations. 

According  to  his  theory,  it  appeared  that,  as  mankind  is 
an  organism,  therefore  the  knowledge  of  what  man  is  and 
Avhat  ought  to  be  his  relation  to  the  world,  is  onl}'  possible 
through  a  knowledge  of  the  properties  of  this  organism. 
In  order  to  learn  these  properties,  man  is  fitted  to  make 
observations  upon  other  lower  organisms,  and  draw  deduc- 
tions from  their  lives. 

Therefore,  first,  the  true  and  exclusive  method  of  science, 
according  to  Comte,  is  the  inductive  one,  and  science  is  onl}' 
science  when  it  has  experiment  for  its  basis  ;  secondly,  the 
final  aim  and  the  summit  of  science  becomes  the  new 
science  concerning  the  imaginary  organism  of  mankind,  or 
the  organic  being,  —  mankind  ;  this  new  hypothetic  science 
is  sociology  ;  from  this  view  of  science,  it  generally  turns  out 
that  all  former  knowledge  was  false,  and  that  the  whole 
history  of  mankind,  in  the  sense  of  its  self-consciousness, 
divides  itself  into  three,  or  rather  into  two,  periods  :  first, 
the  theological  and  metaphysical  period,  from  the  beginning 
of  the  world  to  Comte  ;  and  secondh',  the  modern  period  of 
true  science,  positive  science,  beginning  with  Comte. 

All  this  was  very  well,  but  there  was  a  single  mistake  in 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  1G5 

it ;  it  was  this  :  tliat  all  this  edifice  was  built  upon  the  sand, 
upon  an  arbitrary  and  incorrect  assertion  that  mankind, 
collectively  considered,  was  au  organism.  This  assertion 
was  arbitrary,  because  there  is  no  more  reason  why,  if  we 
acknowledge  the  existence  of  mankind  to  be  an  organism, 
we  should  refuse  to  allow  the  correctness  of  all  the  various 
theological  propositions. 

It  was  incorrect,  because  to  the  idea  of  mankind,  that  is, 
of  men,  the  definition  of  an  organism  was  incorrectly  added, 
whereas  mankind  lacks  the  essential  characteristic  of  an 
organism,  —  a  centre  of  sensation  or  consciousness.  We  call 
an  elephant,  as  well  as  a  bacterium,  organisms,  only  because 
we  suppose  b}*  analogy  in  these  beings  unification  of 
sensations  or  consciousness.  As  for  human  societies  and 
mankind,  they  lack  this  essential;  and  therefore,  however 
many  other  general  character-signs  we  may  find  out  in 
mankind  and  in  an  organism,  without  this,  the  acknowledg- 
ment of  mankind  to  be  an  organism  is  incorrect. 

But  notwithstanding  the  arbitrariness  and  incorrectness  of 
the  fundamental  proposition  of  positive  philosophy,  it  was 
accepted  by  the  so-called  educated  Avorld  with  great 
sympath3%  because  of  that  great  fact  important  for  the 
crowd,  that  it  afforded  a  justification  of  the  existing  order  of 
things  by  recognizing  the  lawfulness  of  the  existing  division 
of  labor;  that  is,  of  violence  in  mankind.  It  is  remarkal)le 
in  this  respect  that  from  the  writings  of  Comte  composed  of 
two  parts,  —  a  positive  philosoi)hy  and  a  positive  politics, — 
by  the  leai'ned  world,  only  the  first  part  \vas  accepted,  that 
wliicli  justified  u[)on  new  experimental  principles  the  exist- 
ing evil  in  human  society  :  the  second  part,  treating  of  tiie 
moral  altruistic  duties,  following  from  this  recognition  of 
mankind  to  be  an  organism,  was  considered  not  only  to  be 
unimportant,  but  even  unscientific. 

Here  the  same  thing  was  repeated  which  occurred  with  the 
two  parts  of  Kant's  writings  :  the  "Critique  of  Pure  Keason  " 
was  accepted  bj'  science;  but  the  "  Critique  of  Practical 
Reason,"  that  part  which  contains  the  essence  of  moral 
doctrine,  was  rejected.  In  the  teaching  of  Comte,  that  лvas 
recognized  to  be  scientific  which  humored  the  reigning  evil. 

But  the  positive  philosophy,  accepted  by  the  crowd,  based 
upon  an  arbitrary  and  incorrect  supposition,  was  by  itself 
too  ill-grounded,  and  therefore  too  unsteady,  and  could  not 
be  sustained  by  itself. 


166  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

And  now  among  all  the  idle  play  of  ideas  of  so-called 
men  of  science,  Iheie  also  appeared  a  similarly  arbitraiy  and 
incori'ect  assertion,  not  a '  new  one  at  all,  to  the  effect  that 
all  living  beings,  that  is,  organisms,  proceed  one  from 
anotlier ;  not  only  one  organism  from  another,  but  one 
organism  from  many  ;  that  during  a  ver}^  long  period,  a 
niilliun  of  years  fur  instance,  not  only  a  fish  and  a  duck  may 
have  i)roceeded  from  one  and  the  same  forefather,  but  also 
one  organism  might  have  proceeded  from  many  se[)arate 
organisms ;  so,  for  instance,  out  of  a  swarm  of  bees  a 
single  animal  may  proceed.  And  this  arbitrary  and  incorrect 
assertion  was  accepted  by  the  learned  world  with  still 
greater  sym[)ath3\ 

This  assertion  was  an  arbitrary  one,  because  nobody'  has 
ever  seen  how  one  kind  of  oigauism  is  made  from  others ; 
and  therefore  the  hypothesis  about  the  origin  of  species  will 
always  remain  a  mere  supposition,  and  never  will  become  an 
experimental  fact. 

This  hypothesis  was  incorrect  because  the  solution  of  the 
problem  of  the  origin  of  species  by  the  theory  that  they  had 
their  origin  in  the  law  of  inheritance  and  accommodation 
during  an  infinitely  long  time,  was  not  at  all  a  solution 
of  the  prol)lem,  but  the  mere  iteration  of  the  question  in 
another  form. 

According  to  the  solution  of  this  problem  by  Moses  (in 
opposition  to  which  consists  all  the  object  of  Comte's  the- 
ory), it  appeared  that  the  variety  of  the  species  of  living 
beings  proceeded  from  the  will  of  God  and  his  infinite  om- 
nipotence :  according  to  the  theory  of  evolution,  it  appears 
that  the  variety  of  species  of  living  beings  proceeded  by 
themselves  in  consequence  of  the  infinite  variety  of  conditions 
of  Inheritance  and  environment  In  an  Infinite  period  of  time. 

The  theorv  of  evolution,  speaking  plainly,  asserts  only 
that  by  chance  in  an  infinite  period  of  time  anv  thing  you 
like  ma}'  proceed  from  any  thing  else  3'ou  choose. 

Tills  Is  no  answer  to  the  question  ;  It  Is  slmph'  the  same 
question  put  differently:  Instead  of  will  is  put  chance,  and 
the  co-efficient  of  the  infinite  Is  transferred  from  omnipotence 
to  time. 

But  this  new  assertion,  enforced  by  Darwin's  followers  In 
an  arbitrary  and  inaccurate  spirit,  maintained  the  former 
assertion  of  Comte,  and  therefore  it  became  a  revelation  for 
our  time,  and  the  foundation  of  all  sciences,  even  that  of 


WHAT  MUST    П'Е  DO    THEN?  167 

the  histoiyof  philosophy  and  religion  ;  and  besides,  according 
to  the  lauve  confession  of  the  very  founder  of  Darwin's 
theory,  this  idea  was  awakened  in  him  by  the  law  of  Mallhus  ; 
and  therefore  he  pointed  to  the  struggle  for  existence  of  not 
oul}'  of  men,  but  of  all  living  beings,  as  to  a  fundamental 
law  of  every  living  thing.  And  this  was  exactly  what  was 
wanted  by  the  crowd  of  idle  people  for  their  own  justification. 

Two  unstable  theories  which  could  not  stand  upon  their 
own  feet  supported  each  other,  and  received  a  show  of 
stability.  Both  the  theories  bore  in  them  a  sense,  precious 
for  the  crowd,  that  for  the  existing  evil  in  human  societies 
men  are  not  to  be  blamed,  thai  the  existing  order  is  what 
ought  to  be,  and  thus  the  new  theory  was  accepted  by  the 
crowd  in  the  sense  which  was  wanted  by  them,  with  full 
confidence  and  unprecedented  enthusiasm. 

And  so  the  new  scientific  doctrine  was  founded  upon  two 
arbitrary  and  incorrect  propositions,  which  were  accepted  in 
the  same  way  as  dogmas  of  faith  are  accepted.  Both  in 
matter  and  form,  this  new  doctrine  is  remarkabl}^  similar  to 
the  Church-Christian  one.  In  matter,  the  similarity  lies  in 
the  fact,  that  in  both  doctrines  alike,  a  fantastical  meaning  is 
attached  to  really  existing  things,  and  this  artificial  meaning 
is  taken  as  the  object  of  our  research. 

In  the  Church-Christian  doctrine,  the  Christ  which  did  really 
exist  is  screened  away  b}'  a  whole  S3'stem  of  fantastical  theo- 
logical dogmas  :  in  the  positive  doctrine,  to  the  really  exist- 
ing fact  of  live  men  is  attributed  the  fantastical  attributes  of 
an  organism. 

In  form,  the  similaritj^  of  these  two  doctrines  is  remarkable, 
since,  in  both  cases,  a  theory  emanating  from  one  class  of 
men  is  accepted  as  the  only  and  infaliiljle  trutli.  In  the 
Church-Christian  doctrine,  the  Church's  wa3'of  understanding 
God's  revelation  to  men  is  regarded  as  the  sacred  and  only 
true  one.  In  the  doctrine  of  positivism,  certain  men's  way 
of  understanding  science  is  regarded  as  absolutely  correct 
and  true. 

As  the  Cliurch-Christians  regard  the  foundation  of  their 
church  as  the  only  origin  of  the  true  knowledge  of  (iod,  and 
Old}'  out  of  a  kind  of  courtesy  admit  that  former  believeis 
may  also  be  regarded  as  having  formed  a  church  ;  so  in 
precisely  the  same  manner  does  positive  science,  according 
to  its  own  statement,  place  its  origin  in  Comte  :  and  its  rep- 
resentatives, also  only  out  of  courtesy,  ailmit  the  existence 


168  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO   THEN? 

of  previous  science,  and  that  only  as  regarding  certain 
thinkers,  as,  for  instance,  Aristotle.  Botli  tlie  Cliurcb  and 
positive  science  altogether  exclude  the  ideas  of  all  the  rest  of 
mankind,  and  regard  all  knowledge  outside  their  own  as 
erroneous. 

In  our  time,  the  old  dogma  of  evolution  comes  in  with 
new  importance  to  help  the  fmidamental  dogma  of  Comte 
concerning  the  organism  of  mankind  ;  and  from  these  two 
elements  a  new  scientific  doctrine  has  been  formed.  If  it  is 
not  quite  clear  to  a  believer  in  the  organism  of  mankind 
why  a  collection  of  individuals  may  be  counted  as  an  or- 
ganism, the  dogma  of  evolution  is  charged  with  the  expla- 
nation. This  dogma  is  needed  to  reconcile  the  contradictions 
and  certainties  of  the  first:  mankind  is  an  organism,  and 
we  see  that  it  does  not  contain  the  chief  characteristic  of  an 
organism  ;  how  must  we  account  for  it? 

Here  the  dogma  of  evolution  comes  in,  and  explains, 
Mankind  is  an  organism  in  a  state  of  development.  If  you 
accept  this,  you  may  then  consider  mankind  as  such. 

A  iDan  who  is  free  from  the  positive  superstition  cannot 
even  understand  wherein  lies  the  interest  of  the  theory  of 
the  origin  of  species  and  of  eA'olution  ;  and  this  interest  is 
explained,  only  when  we  learn  the  fundamental  dogma,  that 
mankind  is  an  organism.  And  as  all  the  subtleties  of 
theology  are  intelligible  only  to  those  who  believe  in  its 
fundamental  dogmas,  so  also  all  the  subtleties  of  sociology, 
which  now  occupy  the  minds  of  all  men  of  this  recent  and 
profound  science,  are  intelligible  only  to  believers. 

The  similarity  between  these  two  doctrines  holds  good  yet 
further.  Being  founded  upon  dogmas  accepted  by  faith, 
these  doctrines  neither  question  nor  analyze  their  own 
principles,  which,  on  the  other  hand,  are  used  as  starting- 
points  for  the  most  extraordinary  theories.  The  preachers 
of  these  call  themselves,  in  theology,  sanctified  ;  in  positive 
knowledge,  scientific  ;  in  both  cases,  infallible.  And  at  the 
same  time,  they  attain  the  most  peremptory,  incredible,  and 
unfounded  assertions,  which  they  give  forth  with  the  greatest 
pomp  and  seriousness,  and  which  are  with  equal  pomp  and 
seriousness  contradicted  in  all  their  details  l>y  others  who  do 
not  agree,  and  yet  who  equally  recognize  the  fundamental 
dogmas. 

The  Basil  the  Great  of  scientific  doctrine,  Spencer,  in  one 
of  his  first  writings  expresses  these  doctrines  thus :  Societies 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Г  HEX?  169 

nnd  ortjanisms,  says  he,  are  alike  in  the  followiiifj  points  : 
First,  in  that,  being  conceived  as  small  aggregates,  they 
ini[)erceptibly  grow  iii)  in  mass,  so  that  some  of  them  become 
ten  tliousand  times  bigger  than  their  originals. 

Secondly,  in  that,  while  in  the  beginning  they  have  such 
simi)le  structure  that  they  may  almost  be  considered  as 
structureless,  in  their  growth  they  develop  an  ever-increasing 
comi)lexity  of  structure. 

Tliiidly,  in  that,  though  in  their  earl}'  undcA^eloped  period 
there  does  not  exist  among  them  any  dependence  of  particles 
one  upon  another,  these  particles  by  and  by  acquire  a  mutual 
deiK'udence,  which  at  last  becomes  so  strong  that  the  activity 
and  the  life  of  each  part  is  possible  only  with  the  activity  and 
the  lives  of  all  others. 

Fourtiily,  in  this,  that  the  life  and  the  development  of 
society  is  more  independent  and  longer  than  the  life  and  the 
develoi)ment  of  every  unit  which  goes  to  form  it,  and  which 
are  separately  born  and  growing  and  acting  and  multii)lying 
and  dying  while  the  political  bod}'  formed  of  them  continues 
to  live  one  generation  after  another,  developing  in  mass,  in 
perfection  of  structure,  and  in  functional  activity. 

Then  follow  the  points  of  difference  between  organisms 
and  societies,  and  it  is  demonstrated  that  these  differences 
are  only  seeming  ones,  and  that  organisms  and  societies  are 
quite  similar.  For  an  impartial  man  the  question  at  once 
arises,  What  are  3'ou,  then,  speaking  about  ?  Why  is  mankind 
an  organism,  or  something  similar? 

You  say  that  societies  are  similar  to  organisms  according 
to  these  four  points  ;  but  even  this  comparison  is  incorrect. 
You  take  only  a  few  characteristics  of  an  organism,  and  you 
then  apply  them  to  human  societies.  You  j^roduce  four  points 
of  similarity,  then  you  take  the  points  of  diff'erence  which  you 
say  are  only  seemingly  so,  and  you  conclude  that  human 
societies  may  be  considered  as  organisms. 

Rut  this  is  nothing  else  than  an  idle  play  of  dialectics. 
Upon  this  ground  we  may  consider  as  organism  ел-ег}^  thing 
we  choose.  I  take  the  first  thing  which  comes  to  my  mind.  — 
a  forest,  —  as  it  is  planted  in  a  field  and  grows  up:  first  be- 
ginning as  a  small  aggregate,  it  imperceptiltly  increases  in 
mass.  This  is  also  the  case  with  fields,  when,  after  being 
planted  the}'  are  gradually  covered  with  forest-trees.  Sec- 
ondly, in  the  beginning  the  structure  of  an  organism  is  sim- 
ple, then  the  complexity  increases,  and  so  ou. 


170  WUAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN? 

The  same  is  the  case  with  the  forest :  at  first  there  are 
only  birch-trees,  then  hazel,  and  so  on  ;  first  all  the  trees  grow 
straight,  and  afterwards  they  interlace  their  branches. 
Thirdl}',  the  dependence  of  the  parts  increases  so  that  the 
life  of  each  part  depends  upon  the  lives  and  activities  of  all 
the  others  :  it  is  exactly  the  same  with  the  forest ;  the  nut- 
tree  warms  the  trunks  (if  you  hew  it  down,  the  other  trees 
will  be  frozen  in  winter),  the  underwood  keeps  off  wind, 
the  seed-trees  continue  the  species,  the  tall  and  leafy  ones 
give  shadow,  and  the  life  of  each  tree  depends  upon  that  of 
the  rest.  Fourthly,  separate  parts  ma}'  die,  but  tlie  whole 
organism  continues  to  live.  Separate  trees  perish,  but  the 
forest  continues  in  life  and  growth.  The  same  holds  good 
with  the  example  so  often  brought  by  the  defenders  of  the 
scientific  doctrine.  Cutoff  an  arm, — the  arm  will  die:  we 
may  say  remove  a  tree  from  the  shadow  and  the  ground  of  a 
forest,  it  will  die. 

Another  remai'kable  similarit}'  between  this  scientific  doc- 
trine and  the  Church-Christian  one,  —  as  also  in  the  case  of 
any  other  theory  founded  upon  propositions,  accepted  through 
faith,  —  lies  in  their  capacity  of  being  proof  against  logic. 

After  having  demonstrated  that  by  this  theory  a  forest 
may  be  considered  as  an  oiganism,  you  think  you  have  proved 
to  the  followers  of  the  theoi-y  of  organisms  the  incorrectness  of 
their  definition  ?  Not  at  all.  Their  definition  of  an  organism 
is  so  inexact  and  dilatable,  that  thej'  can  apply  it  to  ever}' 
thing  they  like. 

Yes.  they  will  say,  you  may  consider  the  forest,  too,  as  an 
organism.  A  forest  is  a  mutual  co-operationship  of  the  in- 
dividmds  who  do  not  destroy  each  other ;  an  aggregate  :  its 
parts  can  also  pass  into  a  closer  relationship,  and  by  differen- 
tiation and  integration  it  may  become  an  organism. 

Then  you  will  say,  that  in  that  case,  the  birds  too  and  the 
insects,  and  the  herbs  of  tiiis  forest,  whic!)  mutually  co-oper- 
ate and  do  not  destroy  each  other,  may  lie  considered  with 
the  trees  to  be  an  organism.  They  would  agree  to  this 
too.  According  to  their  theory,  we  may  consider  as  an 
organism  every  collection  of  living  beings  which  mutually 
co-operate,  and  do  not  destroy  one  another.  Yon  may  estab- 
lish a  connection  and  co-operation  l)et\veen  every  thing  you 
like,  and,  according  to  evolution,  you  may  assert  th:it  from 
any  thing  may  proceed  any  thing  else  you  like,  if  a  long  enough 
period  is  granted. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN  f  171 

It  is  quite  impossible  to  prove  to  a  believer  in  a  theological 
floctrinc,  that  liis  doctrine  is  false.  But  one  may  tell  him 
tliat  if  one  man  arbitrarily  asserts  one  dogma,  another  has 
the  same  right  arbitrarily  to  invent  and  assert  anotlier.  One 
may  say  the  same  thing  with  3'et  better  ground  to  the  follow- 
ers of  positive  and  evolutional  science.  Upon  the  basis  of 
this  science  one  could  undertake  to  prove  any  thing  one  liked. 
And  the  strangest  tiling  of  all  is,  that  this  same  positive 
science  regards  the  scientific  method  as  a  condition  of  true 
knowledge,  and  that  it  has  itself  defined  the  elements  of 
the  scientific  method.  It  professes  that  common  sense  is  the 
scientific  method.  And  yet  common  sense  itself  discloses  at 
every  step  the  fallacies  of  this  doctrine.  The  moment  those 
who  occupied  the  position  of  saints  felt  that  there  was  no 
longer  any  thing  sacred  left  in  them,  like  the  Pope  and  our 
own  Synod,  they  immediately  called  themselves  not  merely 
sacred,  but  "  most  sacred."  The  moment  science  felt  that 
it  had  given  up  common  sense,  it  called  itself  the  science  of 
reason,  the  only  really  scientific  science. 


XXXI. 

The  division  of  labor  is  the  law  pervading  every  existing 
thing,  therefore  it  must  exist  in  human  societies  too.  That 
may  be  so ;  but  the  question  still  remains,  whether  the  now 
existing  divisio]!  of  labor  in  human  society  is  that  division 
which  ouglit  to  be.  And  when  men  consider  a  certain  divis- 
ion of  labor  to  be  reasonable  and  just,  no  science  wliatever 
can  prove  to  men  tluit  there  ought  to  be  that,  which  they 
consider  to  be  uiu'easonable  and  nnjust. 

The  theolf)gical  theory  demonstrated  that  power  is  of  God, 
and  it  very  well  may  ])e  so.  But  the  (]nestion  still  remains. 
To  whom  is  the  power  given,  —  to  Catlierine  the  Empress, 
or  to  the  rebel  Pugatchof?  And  no  theological  subtleties 
whatever  can  solve  this  difficulty.  Moral  Thilosophy  de- 
monstrated that  a  state  is  merely  a  form  of  the  social 
development  of  the  individual ;  but  the  question  still 
remains,  Can  the  state  of  a  Nero  or  that. of  a  Gengis  Khan 
be  considered  a  form  of  such  development?  And  no  tran- 
scendental words  whatever  can  solve  tlie  difficulty. 

It  is  the  same  with  scientific  science  also.  The  division  of 
labor  is  the  condition  of  the  life  of  organisms  and  of  human 


172  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

societies  ;  but  what  have  we  to  consider  in  these  human  socie- 
ties to  be  an  organic  division  of  labor?  And  however  much 
science  studies  tlie  division  of  labor  in  tlie  molecnles  of  a 
tape-worm,  all  tliese  observations  cannot  compel  men  to 
acknowledoe  a  division  of  labor  to  be  correct  which  cannot 
be  admitted  by  their  reason  and  conscience.  However  con- 
vincing ma}'  be  the  proofs  of  the  division  of  labor  in  the 
cells  of  investigated  organisms,  a  man,  if  he  has  not  yet 
lost  his  reason,  will  say  it  is  wrong  that  some  should  only 
weave  cloth  all  their  life  long,  and  that  this  is  not  a  division 
of  labor,  but  oppression  of  a  human  being. 

Herbert  Spencer  and  others  say  that,  as  there  are  a  whole 
population  of  weavers,  therefore  the  weaver's  activity  is 
the  organic  division  of  labor.  Saying  this,  they  use  a  simi- 
lar line  of  reasoning  as  do  theologians.  There  is  a  power, 
and  therefore  it  is  of  God,  whatever  it  may  be  :  there  are 
weavers,  therefore  they  exist  as  a  result  of  the  law  of  divis- 
ion of  labor.  There  might  be  some  sense  in  this  if  the 
power  and  the  position  of  weavers  were  created  by  them- 
selves ;  but  we  know  that  they  are  not,  but  that  it  is  we  who 
create  them.  Well,  then,  we  ought  to  ascertain  whether  we 
have  established  this  before-mentioned  power  according  to 
the  will  of  God,  or  of  ourselves,  and  whether  we  have  called 
these  weavers  into  being  by  virtue  of  some  organic  law,  or 
from  some  other  cause. 

Here  are  men  earning  their  living  by  agriculture,  as  it  is 
proper  for  all  men  to  do  :  one  man  has  arranged  a  smith's 
forge,  and  mended  his  plough  ;  his  neighbor  comes  to  him, 
and  asks  him  to  mend  his  plough,  too,  and  promises  to 
give  labor  or  money  in  return.  A  second  comes  with  a 
similar  request ;  otliers  follow  ;  and  in  the  society  of  these 
men,  a  form  of  division  of  labor  arises:  thus,  one  mau 
becomes  a  smith. 

Another  man    has  taught  his  children  well ;  his  neighbor      ^ 
brings  him  his  children,  and  asks  him  to  teach  them,  and   ^ 
thus  a  teacher  is    formed :  but   the    smith   as   well    as   the     — 
teacher   become,  and   continue    to    be,   snch^  only   because  y^ 
they  were  aske<l,  and  they  remain   such  as  long  as  people 
require  their  trades,      if    it   happens  that  too  many  smiths 
and  teach(M's  appear,  or  if  their  labor  is  no  longer  wanted, 
they  at  once,  according  to  common  sense,  throw  aside  their 
trade,  and  become  laborers  again,  as  it  everywhere  always 
hinpens  where  there  is  no  cause  for  the  violation  of  a  right 
u  visi(!n  of  labor. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  173 

Men  who  behave  in  such  a  way  are  dii-ected  both  b}'  their 
reason  and  their  conscience  ;  and  therefore  we  who  are  en- 
dowed with  reason  and  conscience,  all  agree  that  such  a 
division  of  labor  is  a  right  one.  But  if  it  were  to  hai)pen 
that  smiths,  having  the  possibility  of  compelling  otlier  men 
to  labor  for  them,  were  to  continue  to  make  horseshoes 
when  there  was  no  longer  a  demand  for  them,  and  teachers 
лусге  to  wish  to  continue  to  teach  when  there  was  nobod}' 
to  be  taught,  so  to  every  impartial  man  endowed  with  rea- 
son and  conscience,  it  would  become  obvious  that  such  is 
not  real  division  of  labor,  but  a  usurpation  of  other  men's 
labcjr ;  because  such  a  division  could  no  longer  be  tested 
satisfactorily  by  that  sole  standard  by  which  we  may  know 
whether  it  is  right  or  not,  —  the  demand  of  such  labor  by 
other  men,  and  a  voluntary  compensation  offered  for  it  by 
them.  And  exactly  such  an  overjjlus,  however,  is  that 
which  scientific  science  terms  a  division  of  labor. 

Men  do  that  which  others  do  not  require,  and  they  ask  to  be 
fed  for  this,  and  sa}'  it  is  just,  because  it  is  division  of  labor. 
That  which  forms  the  chief  social  evil  of  a  people,  not  only 
Avith  us  alone,  is  the  countless  number  of  government  func- 
tionaries :  that  which  is  the  cause  of  the  economical  misery 
of  our  days  is  what  is  called  in  P2ngland  over-pioduction 
(that  is,  the  production  of  an  enormous  quantity  of  articles, 
wanted  by  nobody,  and  which  no  one  knows  how  *.o  get  rid 
of) .  All  this  comes  simply  from  this  strange  idea  about 
the  division  of  labor. 

It  W(Mild  be  ver}'  strange  to  see  a  boot-maker  луЬо  con- 
sidered that  men  were  bound  to  feed  him  because,  forsooth, 
lu!  continued  to  produce  boots  wanted  by  no  one;  but  wliat 
sliall  we  say  about  those  men  in  government,  church,  science, 
and  art,  who  not  only  do  not  produce  any  thing  tangil)ly 
useful  for  the  people,  and  whose  produce  is  wanted  by 
nobody,  and  who  as  boldly  require  to  be  well  fed  and 
clotlied  on  account  of  the  division  of  labor? 

There  may  be  some  sorcerers,  for  whose  activity  there 
is  a  demand,  and  to  whom  men  give  cakes  and  spirits  ;  but 
we  cannot  even  imagine  the  existence  of  such  sorcerers 
who.  лvhile  their  sorcery  is  not  wanted  by  anv])ody,  require 
to  be  fed  simply  because  tiiey  wish  to  practise  their  art. 
And  this  very  thing  is  the  case  in  oin-  world  with  men  in 
church  and  stati\  with  men  of  science  and  art.  And  all  tiiis 
proceeds  from  that  false  conception  of  the  division  of  labor 


174  WHAT  MUST    ]VE  BO    THEN? 

which  is  defined,  not  by  reason  and  conscience,  but  by  deduc- 
tions to  which  men  of  science  so  unanimously  resort. 

The  division  of  labor,  indeed,  has  always  existed  ;  Tuit  it 
is  correct  only  when  man  decides  wherein  it  ought  to  con- 
sist by  his  reason  and  conscience,  and  not  by  his  making 
observation  upon  it.  And  the  conscience  and  the  reason  of 
all  men  solve  this  question  in  the  simplest  and  surest  way. 
They  always  decide  that  question  by  recognizing  the  division 
of  lal)or  to  be  a  right  one  onh'  when  the  special  activit}'  of 
a  man  is  so  necessar}"  to  others,  that  they,  asking  him  to 
serve  them,  freely  offer  to  feed  him  in  compensation  for  what 
he  will  do  for  them.  But  when  a  man  from  his  infancy  up 
to  his  thirtieth  year  lives  upon  the  shoulders  of  other  men, 
promising  to  do.  лvhen  he  finishes  his  studies,  something  very 
useful,  which  nobody'  has  ever  asked  him  for,  and  then  for 
the  rest  of  his  life  lives  in  the  same  wa}',  promising  only  to 
do  presently  something  Avhich  nobody  asks  him  to  do.  tliis 
would  not  be  a  true  division  of  lal)or,  but,  as  it  really  is, 
only  a  violation  by  a  strong  man  of  the  labor  of  others  ; 
the  same  appropriation  of  other's  labor  by  a  strong  man, 
which  formerly  theologians  called  diA'ine  destination  ;  pl>i- 
losophers,  inevitable  conditions  of  life  ;  and  now  scientilic 
science,  the  organic  division  of  labor. 

All  the  importance  of  the  ruling  science  consists  in  this 
alone.  This  science  becomes  now  the  dispenser  of  diplomas 
for  idleness,  because  she  alone  in  her  temples  analyzes  and 
determines  what  activity  is  a  parasitic  and  what  an  organic 
one  in  the  social  organism.  As  if  men  could  not,  each  for 
himself,  much  better  decide  it,  and  more  quickly,  too,  by  con- 
sulting his  reason  and  conscience. 

And  as  formerly  both  for  the  clergy  and  then  for  states- 
men, there  could  not  have  been  an}'  dou])t  as  to  who  were 
most  necessary  for  other  people,  so  now  for  the  men  of  pos- 
itive science  it  seems  that  there  cannot  be  any  doubt  about 
this,  that  their  own  activit}'  is  undoubtedly  an  organic  one  : 
they,  factors  of  science  and  ait,  are  the  cells  of  the  brain, 
the  most  precious  cells  of  all  the  human  organism.  Let  us 
leave  them  to  reign,  eat  and  drink,  and  be  feasted,  as  priests 
and  sophists  of  old  have  done  before  them,  as  long  as  they 
do  not  depiave  men  ! 

Since  men  exist  as  reasonable  creatures,  they  Ьале  dis- 
criminated good  from  evil,  making  use  of  what  has  been  done 
in  this  direction  before  them  by  others,  struggled  with  evil, 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  175 

seeking  a  true  and  better  wa}',  and  slowly  but  unceasingly 
have  been  advancing  in  this  way.  And  always  across  it  vari- 
ous deceits  stood  before  them,  which  had  in  view  to  sliow 
them  that  this  struggle  was  not  at  all  necessary  for  them,  but 
that  Ihey  should  submit  to  the  tide  of  life.  There  existed 
the  awful  old  deceits  of  the  Church  ;  with  dreadful  struggle 
and  effort  men  little  b}'  little  got  rid  of  them  :  but  scarcely 
had  they  done  so  when  in  the  place  of  the  old  deceit  arose 
a  new  one,  —  a  state  and  philosophical  one.  Men  freed 
themselves  out  of  these  too. 

And  now  a  new  deceit,  a  still  worse  one,  springs  up  in  their 
path,  —  the  scientific  one. 

This  new  deceit  is  exactly  such  as  the  old  ones  were  :  its 
essence  consists  in  the  substitution  for  reason  and  conscience 
of  something  external ;  and  this  external  thing  is  observa- 
tion, as  in  theology  it  was  revelation. 

The  snare  of  tJiis  science  consists  in  this,  that  having  shown 
to  men  the  most  bare-faced  perversions  of  the  activity  of 
reason  and  conscience,  it  destroys  in  them  confidence  in  both 
reason  and  conscience.  Things  which  are  the  property  of 
conscience  and  reason  are  now  to  be  discerned  by  observa- 
tion alone  :  these  men  lose  the  conception  of  good  and  evil, 
and  become  unable  to  understand  those  expressions  and 
deliuitions  of  good  and  evil  which  have  been  worked  out  by 
all  the  former  existence  of  mankind. 

All  that  reason  and  conscience  sa}^  to  themselves,  all  that 
they  said  to  the  highest  representatives  of  men  since  the 
world  has  existed,  all  this  in  their  slang  is  conditional  and 
sulijective.     All  this  must  be  left  behind. 

It  is  said  by  reason,  one  cannot  apprehend  the  truth,  be- 
cause reason  is  liable  to  error :  there  is  another  way,  unmis- 
takable and  almost  mechanical, — one  ought  to  study  facts 
upon  the  ground  of  science,  that  is,  upon  two  groundless 
su[)positions,  positivism  and  evolution,  which  are  given  out 
to  be  most  undoubted  truths.  And  the  ruling  science  with 
mock  solemnity  asserts  that  the  solving  of  all  the  questions 
of  life  is  only  possible  through  studying  the  facts  of  nature, 
and  especially  those  of  organisms. 

The  credulous  crowd  of  youth,  overwhelmed  b}'  the  novelty 
of  this  authority,  not  only  not  destroyed,  but  not  yet  even 
touched  by  critics,  rush  to  the  study  of  these  facts  of  natural 
sciences  to  that  only  way  which,  according  to  the  assertion  of 
the  ruling  doctrine,  alone  can  lead  to  the  elucidation  of  all 


176  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

questions  of  life.  But  the  farther  the  students  proceed  in  thi^ 
study,  the  farther  do  they  remove  not  only  the  possibility  of 
solving  the  questions  of  life,  but  even  the  very  thonglit  of 
this  solution  ;  the  more  they  grow  accustomed  not  so  much 
to  observe  themselves  as  to  believe  upon  their  word  otiicr 
men's  observations  (to  believe  in  cells,  in  protoplasm,  in  the 
fourth  dimension  of  matter,  and  so  on)  ;  the  more  the  f(;rm 
hides  from  them  the  contents  ;  the  more  they  lose  the  con- 
sciousness of  good  and  evil,  and  the  capacity  of  understand- 
ing those  expressions  and  definitions  of  gcjod  and  evil  uliich 
have  been  worked  out  by  all  the  former  career  of  mankintl ; 
the  more  thev  appropriate  to  themselves  that  special  scien- 
tific slang  of  conditional  expressions  which  have  no  common 
human  meaning  in  them  ;  the  farther  and  farther  they  get 
into  the  thick  forest  of  observations  which  is  not  lighted 
up  by  any  thing ;  the  more  the}'  lose  the  ca|)acity.  not  only 
of  an  independent  thinking,  but  even  of  understanding 
other  men's  fresh  human  ideas  which  are  not  included  in  their 
Talmud:  but  chiefly  they  pass  their  best  years  in  losinir  the 
habit  of  life,  that  is,  of  laboj'ing,  and  accustom  themselves 
to  consider  their  own  position  justified,  and  thus  become 
physicall}-  good-for-nothing  parasites,  and  mentall}'  dislo- 
cate their  brains,  and  lose  all  power  of  thought-produc- 
tiveness. 

And  so  by  degrees,  their  capacities  more  and  more  blunted, 
they  acquire  self-assurance,  which  deprives  them  forever  of 
the  possibility  of  returning  to  a  simple,  laborious  life,  to 
япу  plain,  clear,  common,  human  manner  of  thinking. 


XXXII. 

TriE  division  of  labor  in  human  society  has  alwa3'S  existed, 
and  I  dare  say  always  will  exist;  but  the  question  for  us  js, 
not  whether  or  not  it  has  been  and  will  still  continue,  out 
what  should  guide  us  to  arrange  that  this  division  ma}'  ])e  a 
right  one. 

If  we  take  the  facts  of  observation  for  our  standard,  we 
must  refuse  to  have  any  standard  at  all :  every  division  of 
labor  which  we  see  among  men,  and  which  ma}-  seem  to  us 
to  be  a  right  one,  we  shall  consider  right ;  and  this  is  what 
the  ruling  scientific  science  is  leading  us  to. 

Division  of  labor ! 


WHAT  31  и  ST   WE  DO    THEN?  177 

Some  are  occupied  with  meutal  aud  spiritual,  others  with 
muscular  aud  pliysical,  hibor. 

Witli  wiiat  an  assurance  do  men  express  this  !  They  wish 
to  thiuk  so,  and  that  seems  to  them  in  reality'  a  correct  ex- 
change of  services  which  is  only  the  very  apparent  ancient 
violence. 

Tiiou,  or  rather  you  (because  it  is  alwa3's  many  who  have 
to  feed  one) ,  —  you  feed  me,  dress  me,  do  for  me  all  this  rough 
labor,  which  I  require  of  3'ou,  to  which  j^u  are  accustomed 
from  your  infancy,  and  1  do  for  you  that  mental  work  to 
which  I  have  already  become  accustomed.  Give  me  bodil}' 
food,  and  I  will  give  you  in  return  the  spiritual. 

The  statement  seems  to  be  a  correct  one  ;  aud  it  would 
really  be  so  if  only  such  exchange  of  services  Avere  free,  if 
tliose  who  supply  the  bodily  food  were  not  obliged  to  supply  it 
before  they  get  the  spiritual.  The  producer  of  the  spiritual 
food  says.  In  order  that  I  may  be  able  to  give  you  this 
food,  you  must  feed  me,  clothe  ше,  aud  remove  all  tilth  from 
my  house. 

But,  as  for  the  producer  of  bodily  food,  he  must  do  it 
without  making  any  claims  of  his  own,  and  he  has' to  give 
bodily  food  whether  he  receive  spiritual  food  or  not.  If  the 
exchange  were  a  free  one,  the  conditions  on  both  sides  would 
be  equal.  We  agree  that  si)iritual  food  is  as  necessary  to 
man  as  bodily.  The  learned  man,  the  artist,  says.  Before 
we  can  begin  to  serve  men  by  giving  tliem  spiritual  food,  we 
want  men  to  provide  us  with  bodily  food. 

But  why  should  not  the  producers  of  this  latter  say,  Before 
we  bi-gin  to  serve  you  with  bodily  food,  we  want  s[)iritual 
1\пн1  ;  and  until  we  receive  it,  we  cannot  labor? 

You  say,  J  require  the  labor  of  a  ploughman,  a  smith,  a 
boot-maker,  a  carpenter,  masons,  and  others,  in  order  that  1 
may  prepai-e  the  spiritual  food  1  have  to  offer. 

Eveiy  workman  might  say,  too.  Before  I  go  to  work,  to 
prepare  bodily  food  for  you,  I  want  the  fruits  of  the  spirit. 
Jucndeito  have  strength  for  laboring,  I  require  a  religi(nis 
teaching,  the  social  order  of  common  life,  application  of 
knowledge  to  labor,  and  the  joys  and  comforts  which  art 
gives.  I  have  no  time  to  луогк  out  for  myself  a  teaching 
concerning  the  meaning  of  life, — give  it  to  me. 

1  have  no  time  to  think  out  statutes  of  connnon  life  which 
would  prevent  the  violation  of  justice, — give  me  this  too. 
1    have   no    time    to   study  mechanics,    natural   philosophy, 


178  WUAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

chemistiT,  technology  ;  give  me  books  with  information  as  to 
how  1  am  to  improve  my  tools,  my  ways  of  working,  my 
dwelling,  the  heating  and  lighting  of  it.  I  have  no  time  to 
occupy  myself  with  poetr}',  with  plastic  art,  or  music  ;  give  me 
those  excitements  and  comforts  necessary  for  life ;  give 
me  these  productions  of  the  arts. 

You  say  it  is  impossible  for  you  to  do  your  important  and 
necessary  business  if  you  were  to  be  deprived  of  the  laljor 
working-people  do  for  3'ou  ;  and  I  say,  a  workman  may 
declare,  It  is  impossible  forme  to  do  my  important  and  neces- 
sary business,  not  less  important  than  yours,  —  to  plough,  to 
cart  awa}'  refuse,  and  clean  your  houses,  —  if  I  be  deprived 
of  a  religious  guidance  corresponding  to  the  \vants  of  my 
intellect  and  my  conscience,  of  a  reasonable  government 
which  would  secure  my  labor,  of  information  for  easing  my 
labor,  and  the  enjoyment  of  art  to  ennoble  it.  All  you  have 
offered  me  in  the  shape  of  spiritual  food,  is  not  only  of  no 
use  to  me  whatever,  but  1  cannot  even  understand  to  whom 
it  could  be  of  any  use.  And  until  I  receive  this  nourish- 
ment, proper  for  me  as  for  every  man,  I  caimot  produce 
bodily  food  to  feed  you  with. 

What  if  tlie  working-peoi)le  should  speak  thus  ?  And  if  they 
said  so,  it  would  be  no  jest,  but  the  simplest  justice.  If  a 
workingman  said  this,  he  would  be  far  more  in  the  I'ight  than 
a  man  of  intellectual  labor ;  because  the  labor  produced  by 
the  workingman  is  more  urgent  and  more  necessarj'  than 
that  done  by  tlie  producer  of  intellectual  work,  and  because 
a  man  of  intellect  is  hindered  by  nothing  from  giving  that 
spiritual  food  which  he  promised  to  give,  but  the  working- 
man  is  hindered  in  giAdug  the  bodily  food  by  the  fact  that  he 
himself  is  short  of  it. 

What,  then,  should  we,  men  of  intellectual  labor,  answer,  if 
such  simple  and  lawful  claims  were  made  upon  ns?  How 
should  we  satisfy  these  claims  ?  Should  we  satisfy  the  religious 
wants  of  the  people  b}'  the  catechism  of  Philaret,  b}'  sacred 
histories  of  Sokolof,  by  the  literature  sent  out  by  various 
monasteries  and  St.  Isaak's  cathedral?  And  should  we  satisfy 
their  demand  for  order  b}'  the  Code  of  Laws,  and  cassation 
verdicts  of  different  departments,  or  by  statutes  of  committees 
and  commissions  ?  And  should  we  satisf}'  their  want  of  knowl- 
edge by  giving  them  spectrum  analysis,  a  survey  of  the 
Milky  Wa^',  speculative  geometry,  microscopic  investigations, 
controversies    concerning    spiritualism   and   mediumism,   the 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  179 

activity  of  academies  of  science?  How  should  we  satisfy 
their  artistic  wants?  B}'  Pushkin,  Dosto3-evsky,  Tui-geuief, 
L.  Tolstoi',  by  pictures  of  French  salons,  and  of  tiiose  of 
our  artists  who  represent  nalved  women,  satin,  velvet,  and 
landscapes,  and  pictures  of  domestic  life,  by  the  music  of 
Wagner,  and  tliat  of  our  own  musicians? 

All  this  is  of  no  use,  and  cannot  be  of  any  use,  because  we, 
with  our  right  to  utilize  the  labor  of  the  people,  and  absence 
of  all  duties  in  our  preparation  of  their  spiritual  food,  have 
quite  lost  from  sight  the  single  destination  our  activit3-  should 
have. 

We  do  not  even  know  what  is  required  by  the  working- 
man  ;  we  have  even  forgotten  his  mode  of  life,  his  views  of 
things,  his  language  ;  we  have  even  lost  sight  of  the  very 
working-people  themselves,  and  we  study  them  like  some 
ethnographical  rarity  or  newly  discovered  continent.  Now, 
Ave,  demanding  for  oiu'selves  bodily  food,  have  taken  upon 
ourselves  to  provide  the  spiritual ;  but  in  consequence  of  the 
imaginary  division  of  labor,  according  to  which  we  may  not 
only  lirst  take  our  dinner,  and  afterwards  do  our  work,  but 
may  during  many  generations  dine  luxuriously,  and  do  no 
work,  —  in  the  way  of  compensation  for  our  food  we  Ьал'в 
prepared  something  which  is  of  use,  as  it  seems  to  us,  for 
oiu'selves  and  for  science  and  art,  but  of  no  use  whatever  for 
those  very  jieople  whose  labor  we  consume  under  the  pre- 
text of  providing  them  in  return  with  intellectual  food,  and 
not  only  of  no  use,  but  quite  unintelligible  and  distasteful  to 
them. 

In  our  blindness  we  have  to  such  a  degree  left  out  of  sight 
the  duty  which  we  took  upon  us,  that  we  have  even  forgotten 
for  what  our  labor  is  being  done  ;  and  the  ver}-  people  whom 
we  undertook  to  serve,  we  have  made  an  object  of  our 
scientilic  and  artistic  activities.  We  study  them  and  rcpi-e- 
sent  them  for  our  own  pleasure  and  amusement:  we  have 
(piile  foi-gotten  that  it  is  our  duty,  not  to  study  and  depict, 
but  to  serve  them. 

We  have  to  such  a  degre'e  left  out  of  sight  the  duty  which 
we  assumed,  that  we  have  not  even  noticed  that  other  people 
do  what  we  undertook  in  the  departments  of  science  and  art, 
and  that  our  place  turns  out  to  be  occuj)ied. 

It  appears  tliat,  while  we  have  been  in  controversy,  now 
al)out  tlie  immaculate  conception,  and  now  about  spont:ineous 
generation  of   organisms  ;    now  about  j^itiritualism,  and  now 


180  WUAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

about  the  forms  of  atoms  ;  now  about  pangenesis,  now  ahont 
protoplasms,  and  so  on,  —  the  rest  of  the  world  none  the  less 
required  intellectual  food,  and  the  abortive  outcasts  of  science 
and  art  began  to  provide  for  the  people  this  spiritual  food  ])V 
order  of  various  speculators  Avho  had  in  view  exclusively 
their  own  profit  and  gain. 

Now,  for  some  forty  years  in  Europe,  and  ten  years  in 
Russia,  millions  of  books  and  pictures  and  songs  have  been 
circulating  ;  shows  have  been  opened  :  and  the  people  look 
and  sing,  and  receive  intellectual  food,  though  not  from  those 
who  promised  to  provide  it  for  them  ;  and  we,  who  justify 
our  idleness  b}'  the  need  for  that  intellectual  food  which  we 
pretend  to  provide  for  the  people,  are  sitting  still,  and  taking 
no  notice. 

But  we  cannot  do  so,  because  our  final  justification  has 
vanished  from  under  our  feet.  We  have  taken  upon  our- 
selves a  peculiar  department :  we  have  a  peculiar  functional 
activity  of  our  own.  We  are  the  brain  of  the  people.  They 
feed  us,  and  we  have  undertaken  to  teach  them.  Only  for  the 
sake  of  this  have  we  freed  ourselves  from  labor.  What, 
then,  have  we  been  teaching  them?  They  have  waited  years, 
tens  of  years,  hundreds  of  years.  And  we  are  still  convers- 
ing among  ourselves,  and  teaching  each  other,  aud  amusing 
ourselves,  aud  have  quite  forgotten  them  ;  we  have  so  totally 
forgotten  them,  that  others  have  taken  upon  themselves  to 
teach  and  amuse  them,  and  we  have  not  even  become  aware 
of  this  in  our  flippant  talk  about  division  of  labor :  and  it 
is  ve-ry  obvious  that  all  our  talk  about  the  utility  we  offer  to 
the  people  was  only  a  shameful  excuse. 


XXXIII. 

There  was  a  time  when  the  Church  guided  the  intellectual 
life  of  the  men  of  our  луогк!.  The  Church  promised  men 
happiness,  and,  in  compensation  for  this,  she  freed  herself 
from  taking  part  in  mankind's  common  struggle  for  life. 

And,  as  soon  as  she  did  so,  she  went  astray  from  her  call- 
ing, and  men  turned  away  from,  her.  It  was  not  the  errors 
of  the  Church  which  caused  her  ruin,  but  the  fact  that  her 
ministers  had  violated  the  law  of  labor  with  the  help  of  the 
secular  power  in  the  time  of  Constantine,  and  their  claim  lu 
idleness  aud  luxury  gave  birth  to  her  errors. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  181 

As  soon  as  she  obtained  this  right,  she  began  to  care  for 
herself,  and  not  for  man,  whom  she  liad  taken  npon  herself 
to  serve.  The  ministers  of  the  Church  gave  themselves  up  to 
idleness  and  depravity. 

The  /State  took  upon  itself  to  guide  men's  lives.  The 
State  promised  men  justice,  peace,  security,  order,  satisfac- 
tion for  common  intellectual  and  material  wants,  and  in 
compensation  men  who  served  the  State  freed  themselves 
from  taking  part  in  the  struggle  for  life.  And  the  Stale's 
servants,  as  soon  as  they  were  enabled  to  utilize  other  men's 
lal)or,  have  acted  in  the  same  way  as  the  ministers  of  the 
Church. 

They  had  not  in  view  the  people  ;  but  the  state  servants, 
from  kings  down  to  the  lowest  functionaries,  in  Rome,  as 
well  as  in  France,  England,  Russia,  and  Amei'ica,  gave  them- 
selves over  to  idleness  and  dei)ravity. 

And  men  lost  their  faith  in  the  state,  and  now  anarchy  is 
seriously  advocated  as  an  ideal. 

The  state  lost  its  pi'cstige  among  men,  only  because  its 
ministers  claimed  the  right  of  utilizing  for  themselves  the 
people's  labor. 

Science  and  art  have  done  the  same  with  the  assistance  of 
the  state  power  which  they  took  upon  themselves  to  sustain. 
They  have  also  claimed  and  obtained  for  themselves  the 
right  of  idleness,  and  of  utilizing  other  men's  labor,  and 
have  also  been  false  to  their  calling.  And  their  errors  also 
proceeded  onl}'  from  tlie  fact  that  tlunr  ministers,  pointing  to 
a  falsely  conceived  principle  of  the  division  of  labor,  claimed 
for  themselves  the  right  to  utilize  the  work  of  the  ])eople.  and 
so  lost  the  meaning  of  their  calling,  making  the  aim  of  their 
activit}^  not  the  utility  of  the  people,  Init  a  mysterious  activity 
of  science  and  art ;  and  also,  like  their  forerunners,  they  have 
given  themselves  over  to  idleness  and  depravity,  though  not 
so  much  to  a  fleshly,  as  to  an  intellectual,  corruption. 

It  is  said,  science  and  art  have  done  much  for  mankind. 

This  is  quite  true. 

Science  and  art  also  have  done  much  for  mankind,  not  be- 
cause, but  in  spite  of,  the  fact  that  men  of  science  and  art, 
uuch'r  the  pretext  of  division  of  labor,  live  npon  the  shoulders 
of  the  working-peo[)le. 

The  I^jman  Re[)ublic  was  powei'ful.  not  because  its  citizens 
were  able  to  lead  a  life  of  depravity,  l)ut  because  it  could 
number  amongst  them  men  who  were  virtuous. 


182  WUAT  MUST   WE  DO   TUENf 

The  same  is  the  case  with  science  and  art. 

Science  and  art  have  effected  much  for  mankind,  not  be- 
cause their  ministers  had  sometimes  formerly,  and  have 
always  at  present,  the  possibility  of  freeing  themselves  from 
laboring,  but  because  men  of  genius,  not  utilizing  these 
rights,  have  forwarded  the  progress  of  mankind. 

The  class  of  learned  men  and  artists  who  claim,  on  account 
of  a  false  division  of  labor,  the  right  of  utilizing  other  men's 
labor,  cannot  coutril)ute  to  the  progress  of  true  science  and 
true  art,  because  a  lie  can  never  produce  a  truth. 

We  are  so  accustomed  to  our  pampered  or  debilitated  rep- 
resentatives of  intellectual  labor,  that  it  would  seem  тегу 
strange  if  a  learned  man  or  an  artist  were  to  plough  or  cart 
manure.  We  think  that,  were  he  to  do  so,  all  would  go  to 
ruin  ;  that  all  his  wisdom  would  be  shaken  out  of  him,  and 
the  great  artistic  images  he  carries  in  his  breast  would  be 
soiled  by  the  manure  :  but  we  are  so  accustomed  to  our  pres- 
ent conditions  that  we  do  not  wonder  at  our  ministers  of 
science,  that  is,  ministers  and  teachers  of  truth,  compelling 
other  people  to  do  for  them  that  which  they  could  very  well 
do  themselves,  passing  half  their  time  eating,  smoking,  chat- 
tering in  '•  liberal "  gossip,  reading  newsi)apers.  novels, 
visiting  theatres  ;  we  are  not  sur[)rised  to  see  our  philosopher 
in  an  inn,  in  a  theatre,  at  a  ball ;  we  do  not  wonder  when  we 
learn  that  those  artists  \\\\o  delight  and  ennolile  our  souls, 
pass  their  lives  in  drunkenness,  in  tjlaying  cards,  in  compauj' 
with  loose  women,  or  do  things  still  worse. 

Science  and  art  are  fine  things  :  but  just  because  they  are 
fine  things,  men  ought  not  to  spoil  them  by  associating  them 
with  depravity  ;  by  freeing  themselves  from  man's  duty  to 
serve  by  labor  his  own  life  and  the  lives  of  other  men. 

Science  and  art  have  forwarded  the  progress  of  mankind. 
Yes  ;  but  this  was  not  done  by  the  fact  that  men  of  science 
and  art,  under  the  pretext  of  a  division  of  labor,  taught  men 
by  word,  and  chiefly  by  deed,  to  utilize  by  violence  the 
misery  and  sufferings  of  the  people,  in  order  to  free  them- 
selves from  the  very  first  and  unquestionable  human  duty  of 
laboring  with  their  hands  in  the  common  struggle  of  mankind 
with  nature. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  183 


XXXIV. 

"  But  it  is,"  you  sa}-,  "  this  л'егу  division  of  labor,  tlie 
freeing  men  of  science  and  of  art  from  the  necessity  of  earn- 
ing their  bread,  that  lias  rendered  possible  that  extraordinary 
success  in  science  which  we  see  in  our  daj's. 

"  If  everybody  were  to  plougli,  these  enormous  results 
would  not  be  attained  ;  there  would  not  be  those  astonishing 
successes  which  have  so  enlarged  man's  power  over  nature  ; 
there  would  not  be  those  discoveries  in  astronomy  which 
so  strike  the  minds  of  men  and  promote  navigation  ;  there 
would  be  no  steamers,  railwa3's,  wonderful  bridges,  tunnels, 
steam-engines,  and  telegraphs,  photographs,  telephones, 
sewing-machines,  phonographs,  electricity,  telescopes,  spec- 
troscopes, microscopes,  chloroform.  Lister  bandages,  carbolic 
acid." 

I  will  not  attempt  to  enumerate  all  the  things  of  which  our 
century  is  so  proud.  This  enumeration,  and  the  ecstasy  of 
contemplation  of  ourselves  and  of  our  great  deeds,  you  may 
find  in  almost  every  newspaper  and  popular  book. 

These  raptures  of  self-contemplation  are  so  often  repeated, 
and  we  are  so  seldom  tired  of  praising  ourselves,  that  we 
really  come  to  believe,  with  Jules  Verne,  that  science  and  art 
have  never  made  such  progress  as  in  our  time.  And  all  this 
is  rendered  possible  only  by  division  of  labor :  how  can  we, 
then,  avoid  countenancing  it? 

Let  us  suppose  that  the  progress  of  our  century  is  indeed 
striking,  astonishing,  extraordinary :  let  us  suppose  that 
we,  too,  are  particularly^  lucky  in  living  at  such  an  extraor- 
dinar}'  time :  but  let  us  try  to  ascertain  the  value  of  these 
successes,  not  by  our  own  self-contentment,  but  b}'  the  very 
principle  of  the  division  of  lalior  ;  that  is,  by  that  intellect- 
ual laljor  of  men  of  science  for  the  advantage  of  the  people 
Avhieh  has  to  compensate  for  the  freeing  men  of  science  and 
art  from  labor. 

All  this  progress  is  л'егу  striking  indeed ;  but  owing  to 
some  unluck}'  chance,  recognized,  too,  by  men  of  science, 
this  progress  has  not  as  yet  ameliorated,  but  it  has  rather 
deteriorated,  the  condition  of  workingmen. 

Though  a  workiugman,  instead  of  walking,  can  use  the 
railway,  it  is  this  very  railway  which  has  caused  his  foi'fst 
to  be  burned,  and  has  carried  away  his  bread  from  under 


184  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

his  very  nose,  and  put  him  into  a  condition  which  is  next 
door  to  shivery  to  the  railway  pro[)i'ietor. 

If,  thanks  to  the  engines  and  steam-machines,  a  working- 
man  can  buy  cheap  and  poor  calico,  it  will  be  these  very 
engines  and  machines  which  have  deprived  him  of  his 
wages,  and  brought  him  to  a  state  of  entire  slaver}-  to  the 
manufacturer. 

If  there  are  telegraphs,  \vliich  he  is  not  forbidden  to  urse, 
but  which  he  does  not  use  because  he  cannot  afford  it,  then 
each  of  his  productions,  the  value  of  which  Huctuates,  is 
bought  up  from  under  his  very  eyes  by  capitalists  at  low 
prices,  thanks  to  the  telegrai)h,  before  the  workingmaa 
even  becomes  aware  that  the  article  is  in  demand. 

Though  there  are  telephones  and  telescopes,  novels,  operas, 
picture-galleries,  and  so  on,  the  life  of  the  workingman  is 
not  at  all  improved  by  an}'  of  them,  because  all,  owing  to 
the  same  unlucky  chance,  are  beyond  his  reacli.  So  tiiat, 
after  all,  these  wonderful  discoveries  and  i)roductions  of 
ai't,  if  they  have  not  made  the  life  of  working-|)eople  worse, 
have  by  no  means  improved  it :  on  tliis  the  men  of  science 
are  agreed. 

So  that,  if  to  the  question  as  to  the  reality  of  the  suc- 
cesses attained  by  the  sciences  and  arts,  we  api)ly,  not  our 
rapture  of  self-contemplation,  but  the  л'сгу  standard  on 
w'hich  the  ground  of  the  division  of  labor  is  defended. — • 
utility  to  the  working-world,  —  we  shall  see  that  we  have  not 
yet  any  sound  reason  for  the  self-contentment  to  which  we 
consign  ourselves  so  willingly. 

A  peasant  uses  the  railway  ;  a  peasant's  wife  buys  calico  ; 
in  the  cottage  a  lamp,  and  not  a  pine-knot,  burns  ;  and  the 
peasant  lights  his  pipe  with  a  match,  —  this  is  comfortable  ; 
but  what  right  have  I  from  this  to  say  that  railways  and 
factories  have  done  good  to  the  people? 

If  a  peasant  uses  the  railway,  and  buys  a  lamp,  calico,  and 
matclies,  he  does  it  only  because  w^e  cannot  forbid  his  doing 
so :  w^e  all  know  very  well  tiiat  railways  and  factories  have 
never  been  built  for  the  use  of  the  people  ;  why,  then,  should 
the  casual  comfort  a  workingman  obtains  by  chance,  be 
brought  forward  as  a  proof  of  the  usefulness  of  these  insti- 
tutions to  the  people? 

We  all  know  very  well-  that  if  those  engineers  and  capi- 
talists who  build  a  railway  or  a  factory  have  been  thinking 
about    \vorking-i)eople,  they    have    been    thinking  only  how 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    Til  EX  ?  185 

to  make  the  best  possible  use  of  ihem.  And  we  see  they 
have  fully  succeeded  in  doing  so  as  well  in  Russia  as  in 
Europe  and  America. 

In  every  hurtful  thing,  there  is  something  useful.  After 
a  house  has  been  })urned  down,  we  may  sit  and  warm  our- 
selves, and  light  our  pipes  with  one  of  the  fire-brands  ;  but 
should  we  therefore  say  that  a  conflagration  is  beneficial? 

Whatever  we  do,  let  us  not  deceive  ourselves.  We  all 
know  very  well  the  motives  for  building  railways,  and  for 
pioducing  kerosene  and  matches.  An  engineer  builds  a 
railway  for  the  government,  to  facilitate  wars,  or  for  tlie 
cai)italists  for  financial  purposes.  He  makes  machines  for 
manufacturers  for  his  own  advantage,  and  for  the  profit  of 
capitalists.  All  that  he  makes  or  excogitates  he  does  for 
the  purpose  of  the  government,  the  capitalists,  and  other 
rich  peoi)le.  His  most  skilful  inventions  are  either  directly 
luii'mful  to  the  people,  as  guns,  torpedoes,  solitary  prisons, 
and  so  on  ;  or  they  are  not  only  useless,  but  quite  inacces- 
sible to  them,  as  electric  light,  telephones,  and  the  innumer- 
al)le  improvements  of  comfort ;  or  lastly,  they  deprave  the 
]K'ople.  and  rob  them  of  their  last  ko[)ek,  that  is,  their  last 
lal)or,  for  spirits,  лу1пе,  beer,  opium,  tobacco,  calicoes,  and 
all  sorts  of  trifles. 

But  if  it  happens  sometimes  that  the  iuA'entions  of  men 
of  science,  and  the  works  of  engineers,  are  of  any  use  to  the 
people,  as,  for  instance,  railways,  calicoes,  steel,  scythes,  it 
only  proA'es  that,  in  this  world  of  ours,  all  things  are  mutu- 
ally connected  together,  and  that,  out  of  every  hurtful 
activity,  there  may  arise  an  accidental  good  for  those  to 
whom  this  activity  was  hurtful. 

Men  of  science  and  of  art  can  say  that  their  activity  is 
useful  for  the  people,  only  if  they  have  aimed  in  their  ac- 
tivity at  serving  the  people,  as  they  do  now  to  serve  govern- 
ments and  capitalists. 

We  could  have  said  that,  only  if  men  of  science  and  art 
made  the  wants  of  the  people  their  object ;  but  such  is  not 
the  case. 

All  learned  men  are  occupied  with  their  sacred  business, 
which  leads  to  the  iuvestigation  of  protoplasms,  the  spec- 
trum analysis  of  stars,  and  so  on  :  but  concerning  investiga- 
tions as  to  how  to  set  an  axe,  or  with  what  kind  it  is  more 
advantageous  to  hew  ;  which  saw  is  the  most  handy  ;  with 
what    flour    bread    shall    be    made,    how   it   may    best   be 


186  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

kneaded,  how  to  set  it  to  rise  ;  bow  to  heat  and  to  build 
stoves  ;  what  food,  drink,  crockery-ware,  it  is  best  to  use  ; 
what  mushiooms  may  be  eaten,  and  how  they  may  be  pre- 
pared more  conveniently,  —  science  has  never  troubled 
itself. 

And  yet  all  this  is  tlie  business  of  science. 

I  know  that,  according  to  its  own  definition,  science  must 
be  useless  ;  but  this  is  only  an  excuse,  and  a  very  impudent 
one. 

The  business  of  science  is  to  serve  people.  "We  have 
invented  telegraphs,  telephones,  phonographs,  but  what 
improvements  have  we  made  in  the  life  of  the  jjcople?  We 
have  catalogued  two  millions  of  insects  !  but  have  we  do- 
mesticated a  single  animal  since  biblical  times,  Avhen  all 
our  animals  had  long  been  domesticated,  and  still  the  elk 
and  the  deer,  and  the  partridge  and  the  grouse  and  the 
wood-hen,  are  wild? 

Botanists  have  discovered  the  cells,  and  in  the  cells  proto- 
plasms, and  in  protoplasms  something  else,  and  in  this  some- 
thing else  again. 

These  occupations  will  evidentl}'  never  end,  and  therefore 
learned  men  have  no  time  to  do  any  thing  useful.  And  hence 
from  the  times  of  the  ancient  Egyptians  and  Hebrews,  when 
wheat  and  lentils  were  already  cultivated,  down  to  the  pres- 
ent time,  not  a  single  plant  has  been  added  for  the  nourish- 
ment of  the  people  except  potatoes,  and  these  have  not  been 
discovered  by  science.  ЛУе  have  invented  torpedoes,  house- 
drains  ;  but  the  spinning-wheel,  weaving-looms,  ploughs  and 
axe-handles,  flails  and  rakes,  buckets  and  well-sweeps,  are 
still  the  same  as  in  the  time  of  Rurik. 

And  if  some  things  Ьал^е  been  improved,  it  is  not  the 
learned  who  have  done  it. 

The  same  is  the  case  with  art.  ЛУе  have  praised  up  many 
great  writers,  have  carefully  sifted  these  writers,  and  have 
written  mountains  of  critiques  and  criticisms  upon  critics ; 
we  have  collected  pictures  in  galleries,  and  we  have  thor- 
oughly studied  all  the  schools  of  art ;  and  we  have  such  sym- 
phonies and  operas  that  we  ourselves  are  tired  of  listening 
to  ;  but  what  have  we  added  to  the  folk-lore,  legends,  tales, 
songs?  what  pictures,  what  music,  have  we  created  for  the 
people? 

Books  and  pictures  are  published,  and  harmoniums  are 
made  for  the  people,  but  we  do  not  care  for  either. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN?  187 

That  which  is  most  striking  and  obvious,  is  the  false  ten- 
dency of  our  science  and  art,  wliich  manifests  itself  in  those 
departments  which,  according  to  their  own  propositions,  would 
seem  to  be  useful  to  people,  and  which,  owing  to  this  ten- 
deuc}',  appear  rather  pernicious  than  useful.  An  engineer, 
a  surgeon,  a  teacher,  an  artist,  an  author,  seem  by  their  very 
professions  to  be  obliged  to  serve  the  people,  but  what  do 
we  see? 

With  the  present  tendency,  the}*  can  bring  to  the  people 
nothing  but  harm.  An  engineer  and  a  mechanic  must  work 
with  capital :  without  capital  they  are  good  for  nothing. 

All  their  informations  are  such,  that,  in  order  to  make  use 
of  them,  they  need  capital  and  the  employment  of  working- 
people  on  a  large  scale,  to  sa}-  nothing  of  the  fact  that  they 
themselves  are  accustomed  to  spend  from  fifteen  hundred 
to  two  thousand  rubles  a  3'ear,  and  therefore  they  cannot  go  to 
a  village,  since  no  one  there  can  give  tliem  апз*  such  remu- 
neration :  they,  from  their  very  occupations,  are  not  tit  for 
the  service  of  the  people. 

The}'  understand  how  to  calculate  by  means  of  the  highest 
mathematics  the  arch  of  a  bridge,  iiow  to  calculate  power 
and  the  transfer  of  power  in  an  engine,  and  so  on  :  but  they 
л\111  be  at  a  loss  to  meet  the  plain  requirements  of  popular 
labor ;  they  do  not  know  how  to  improve  the  plough  or  the 
cart ;  how  to  make  a  brook  passable,  taking  into  considera- 
tion the  conditions  of  a  workingmau's  life. 

They  know  and  understand  nothing  of  all  this,  less  even 
than  does  the  poorest  peasant.  Give  them  workshops, 
plenty  of  ])eople,  order  engines  from  abroad,  then  they  will 
arrange  these  matters.  But  to  find  out  how  to  ease  the  lal)or 
of  millions  of  people  in  their  present  condition,  they  do  not 
know,  and  cannot  do  it ;  and  accordingly,  by  their  knowledge 
and  habits  and  wants,  they  are  not  at  all  fit  for  this  l)usiness. 
A  surgeon  is  in  a  still  worse  condition.  His  imaginar}-  sci- 
ence is  such  that  he  understands  how  to  cure  those  only  who 
have  nothing  to  do,  and  who  may  utilize  other  men's  labor. 
He  requires  a  countless  number  of  expensive  accessories,  in- 
struments, medicines,  sanitary  dwellings,  food,  and  drains, 
in  order  that  he  may  act  scientifically  :  besides  his  fee,  he 
demands  such  expenses,  that,  in  order  to  cure  one  patient, 
he  must  kill  with  starvation  hundreds  of  those  who  bear,  this 
exiXMise. 

He  has  studied  under  eminent  pei'sons  in  the  capital  cities, 


188  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

who  attend  only  to  snch  patients  whom  they  may  take  into 
hospitals,  oi'  who  can  afford  to  buy  all  tlie  necessaiy  u)t(U- 
cines  and  machines,  and  even  go  at  once  from  north  to  the 
south,  to  these  or  those  mineral  waters,  as  the  case  may  be. 

Their  science  is  such  that  every  country  sui-geon  comphiins 
that  there  is  no  possibility  of  attending  to  the  working-peo- 
ple, who  are  so  poor  that  they  cannot  afford  sauitar\'  accom- 
modations, and  that  there  are  no  hos[)itals,  and  that  he 
cannot  attend  to  the  business  alone,  that  he  requires  help 
and  assistant-surgeons.     What  does  this  really  mean? 

It  means  this,  —  that  the  want  of  the  necessaries  of  life  is 
the  chief  cause  of  people's  misfortunes,  and  as  well  the 
source  of  diseases  as  also  of  their  spreading  and  incurability. 
And  now  science,  under  the  banners  of  the  division  of  labor, 
calls  its  cham[)ions  to  help  the  people.  Science  has  settled 
satisfactorily  about  rich  classes,  and  seeks  how  to  cure  those 
who  can  get  every  thing  necessary  for  the  purpose,  and  it 
sends  persons  to  cure  in  the  same  way  those  who  have  noth- 
ing to  spare.  But  there  are  no  means ;  and  therefore  they 
are  to  be  raised  from  the  people,  who  become  ill,  and  catch 
diseases,  and  cannot  be  cured  for  want  of  means. 

The  advocates  of  the  healing  art  for  the  people  say,  that, 
up  to  the  present  time,  this  business  has  not  been  sufticiently 
developed , 

Evidently  it  is  not  yet  developed,  because  if,  which  God 
forbid  !  it  were  developed  among  our  people,  and,  instead  cf 
two  doctors  and  midwiл'es  and  two  assistant-surgeons  in  the 
district,  there  should  be  twenty  sent,  as  they  want,  then  there 
would  soon  be  no  one  left  to  attend  to.  The  scientiflc  co- 
operation for  the  people  must  be  quite  a  different  one.  And 
such  co-operation  wiiich  ought  to  be,  has  not  yet  begun. 

It  wdll  begin  when  a  man  of  science,  an  engineer,  or  a 
surgeon,  will  cease  to  consider  as  lawful  that  division  of 
labor,  or  rather  that  taking  away  other  men's  labor,  which  now 
exists,  and  when  he  no  longer  considers  that  he  has  the  right 
to  take,  I  do  not  saj-  hundreds  of  thousands,  but  even  a 
moderate  sum  of  one  thousand  or  five  hundred  rubles  as 
a  compensation  for  his  services  ;  but  when  such  a  man  comes 
to  live  among  laboring-people  in  the  same  condition  and  ia 
the  same  way  as  they,  then  he  will  apply  his  information  in 
mechanics,  technics,  hygiene,  to  the  curing  of  working-people. 

But  now  scientific  men,  who  are  fed  at  tho  exjiense  of  the 
working  man,  have  quite  forgotten  the  conditions  of  the  life 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  189 

of  these  men  :  the}'  ignore  (as  tho}^  say)  these  conditions,  and 
are  quite  seriously  offended  that  their  imaginary  knowledge 
does  not  fiud  application  among  the  peoi)le. 

The  departments  as  well  of  the  healing  art  as  the  me- 
chanical have  not  yet  been  touched  :  the  questions  how  best 
to  divide  the  time  of  labor,  how  and  upon  what  it  is  best  to 
feed,  how  best  to  dress,  how  to  counteract  dampness  and 
cold,  how  best  to  wash,  to  suckle,  and  swaddle  children,  and  so 
on,  and  all  these  applied  to  those  conditions  in  which  the 
working-people  are,  —  all  these  questions  have  not  yet  been 
put. 

The  same  applies  to  the  activity  of  scientific  teachers, — 
pedagogues.  Science  has  arranged  this  business,  too,  in  such 
a  way  that  teaching  according  to  science  is  possible  only  for 
those  who  are  rich  ;  and  the  teachers,  like  the  engineers  and 
surgeons,  are  involuntarih'  drawn  towards  money,  and  among 
us  in  Russia  especially  towards  the  government. 

And  this  cannot  be  otherwise,  because  a  school  properly 
arranged  (and  the  general  rule  is,  that  the  more  scientifically 
a  school  is  arranged,  the  more  expensive  it  is),  with  convert- 
ible benches,  glol)es,  maps,  libraries,  and  method  manuals  for 
teachers  and  pupils,  is  just  such  a  school  for  whose  mainten- 
ance it  is  necessary  to  double  the  taxes  of  the  people.  So 
science  wants  to  have  it.  The  children  are  necessary  for 
work,  and  the  moi'e  so  with  the  poorer  people.  The  advocates 
of  science  say,  Pedagogy  is  even  now  of  use  for  the  people  ; 
but  let  it  be  developed,  and  instead  of  twenty  schools  in  a 
district,  let  there  be  a  hundred,  all  of  them  seientificall}-  ar- 
ranged, and  the  people  will  support  these  schools.  Hut  then 
they  will  be  still  poorer,  and  will  waut  the  labor  of  their 
children  still  more  urgently. 

What  is  then  to  be  done? 

To  this  they  reply.  The  gOA'crnment  will  estaT)lisli  schools, 
and  will  make  education  oljligatorj'^  as  it  is  in  the  rest  of 
Europe.  But  the  money  will  still  have  to  be  raised  from  the 
people,  and  labor  will  be  still  harder  for  them,  and  they  will 
have  less  time  to  spare  from  their  lal)or,  and  there  will  be 
then  no  obligatory  education  at  all. 

There  is,  again,  only  one  escape,  —  for  a  teacher  to  live  in  the 
conditions  of  a  workingman,  and  to  teach  for  that  compen- 
sation which  will  be  freely  offered  him.  Such  is  the  false 
tendency  of  science  which  deprives  it  of  the  possil)ility  to 
fulfil  its  duty  in  serving  the  peo[)le.     l>ut  this  false  tendency 


190  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

of  our  educated  class  is  still  more  obvious  in  art-activity, 
which,  for  the  sake  of  its  very  meauing,  ought  to  be  accessible 
to  the  people. 

Science  may  point  to  its  stupid  excuse  that  science  is  acting 
for  science,  and  that,  when  it  will  be  fully  developed,  it  will 
become  accessible  to  the  people  ;  but  art,  if  it  is  art  indeed, 
ought  to  be  accessible  to  all,  especially  to  those  for  the  sake 
of  whom  it  is  created.  And  our  art  strikingly  denounces  its 
factors  in  that  tliey  do  not  wish,  and  do  not  understand,  and 
are  not  able  to  be  of  use  to  the  people.  A  painter,  in  order 
to  produce  his  great  works,  must  have  a  large  studio,  in  which 
at  least  fort}'  joiners  or  boot-makers  might  work,  who  are 
now  freezing  or  suffocating  in  wretched  lodgings  :  but  this  is 
not  all :  he  requires  models,  costumes,  journeys  from  place 
to  place.  The  Academy  of  Art  has  spent  millions  of  rubles 
collected  from  the  people  for  the  encouragement  of  art ;  and 
the  productions  of  this  art  are  hung  in  palaces,  and  are 
neither  intelligible  to  the  people,  nor  wanted  by  them. 

Musicians,  in  order  to  express  their  great  ideas,  must 
gather  about  two  hundred  men  with  white  neckties  or  in 
costumes,  and  si)end  hundreds  of  thousands  of  rubles  to  arrange 
operas.  But  this  art-production  would  never  appear  to  the 
people  (even  if  they  could  afford  to  use  it)  as  any  thing  but  per- 
plexing or  dull.  The  authors,  writers,  seem  not  to  want  any 
particular  accommodations,  studios,  models,  orchestras,  and 
actors  ;  but  here  also  it  tui'ns  out  that  an  author,  a  writer,  to 
say  nothing  of  all  the  comforts  of  his  dwelling  and  all  the 
comforts  of  his  life,  in  order  to  prepare  his  great  works,  wants 
travelling,  palaces,  cabinets,  enjo3'ments  of  art,  theatres, 
concerts,  mineral  waters,  and  so  on.  If  he  himself  has  not 
saved  up  enough  money  for  this  purpose,  he  is  given  a  pen- 
sion in  order  that  he  may  compose  better.  And,  again,  these 
writings,  which  we  value  so  highly,  remain  for  the  people, 
rubbish,  and  are  not  at  all  necessary  to  them. 

AVhat  if,  according  to  the  wish  of  men  of  science  and  art, 
such  producers  of  mental  food  should  multipU'.  so  that,  in 
cver}^  village,  it  would  be  necessary  to  build  a  studio,  provide 
an  orchestra,  and  keep  an  author  in  the  conditions  which  men 
of  art  consider  indispensal)le  to  them  ?  I  dare  say  working- 
people  would  make  a  vow  never  to  look  at  a  picture,  or  listen 
to  a  symphou}',  or  read  poetry  and  novels,  in  order  only  not  to 
be  compelled  to  feed  all  these  good-for-nothing  parasites. 

And  why  should   not  men   of    art   serve  the   people?     In 


WHAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  191 

ел'егу  cottage,  there  are  holy  images  and  i)ictures  ;  each  peas- 
ant, each  woman  of  the  people,  sings  ;  шап}^  have  instruments 
of  music  ;  and  all  can  relate  stories,  repeat  poeti'y  ;  and  many 
of  them  read.  How  came  it  to  pass  that  these  two  things 
were  separated  which  were  as  much  made  for  one  another  as 
a  key  for  a  lock,  and  how  are  they  so  separated  that  we  can- 
not imagine  how  to  re-unite  them  ? 

Tell  a  painter  to  paint  without  a  studio,  models,  costumes, 
and  to  draw  penny  pictures,  he  will  say  that  this  would  be  a 
denying  of  art  as  he  understands  it.  Tell  a  musician  to  play 
on  a  harmonium,  and  to  teach  country-women  to  sing  songs  ; 
tell  a  poet  to  throw  aside  writing  poems  and  novels  and 
satires,  and  to  compose  song-books  for  the  people,  and 
stories  and  tales  Avhich  might  be  intelligible  to  ignorant 
persons,  —  the}''  will  say  yon  are  cracked. 

But  is  it  not  being  worse  than  cracked  Avhen  men,  who 
have  freed  themselves  from  labor  because  they  promised  to 
provide  mental  food  for  those  луЬо  have  brought  them  up, 
and  are  feeding  and  clothing  them,  afterwards  have  so  for- 
gotten their  promise  that  the}'  have  ceased  to  understand 
how  to  make  food  fit  for  the  people?  Yet  this  very  forsaking 
of  their  promises  the}'  consider  dignifies  them.  iSuch  is  the 
case  everywhere,  they  say.  Everywhere  the  case  is  very 
unreasonable,  then  ;  and  it  will  be  so  while  men,  under  the 
pretext  of  division  of  labor,  promise  to  provide  mental  food 
for  the  people,  but  only  swallow  up  the  labor  of  the  peo- 
ple. Men  will  serve  the  people  with  science  and  art,  only 
when,  living  among  and  in  the  same  way  as  do  the  people, 
putting  forth  no  claims  whatever,  they  offer  to  the  people 
their  scientific  and  aitistic  services,  leaving  it  to  the  free  will 
of  the  people  to  accept  or  refuse  them. 


XXXV. 

To  say  that  the  activities  of  the  arts  and  sciences  have  co- 
operated in  forwarding  the  progress  of  mankind,  and  by 
these  activities  to  mean  that  which  is  now  called  by  this 
name,  is  the  same  as  to  say  that  an  awkward  moving  of  the 
oars,  hindering  the  progress  of  a  boat  going  down  the 
stream,  is  forwarding  the  progress  of  the  boat ;  but  it  only 
hinders  it.  The  so-called  division  of  labor  —  that  is,  the 
violation   of   other  men's   labor  which  has   become    in  our 


192  WHAT  л  и  ST    WE  DO    THEN? 

time  a  condition  of  the  activity  of  men  of  art  and  science  — 
has  been,  and  still  remains,  the  chief  cause  of  ihe  «lowuess 
of  the  progi-ess  of  mankind. 

The  proof  of  it  we  have  in  the  acknowledgment  of  all 
men  of  science  and  art  that  the  acquisitions  of  art  and 
science  are  not  accessible  to  the  workiiiy-classes  l)ecanse  of  a 
wrong  distribution  of  wealth.  And  the  incorrectness  of  this 
distribution  does  not  diminish  in  proportion  to  the  progress 
of  art  and  science,  but  rather  increases.  And  it  is  not  as- 
tonishing that  such  is  the  case  ;  because  the  incorrect  distri- 
bution of  wealth  proceeds  solel}^  from  the  theory  of  the 
division  of  labor,  preached  by  men  of  art  and  science  for 
sellish  purposes. 

►Science,  defending  the  division  of  labor  as  an  unchange- 
al)le  law,  sees  that  the  distribution  of  wealth  based  upon  the 
division  of  labor  is  incorrect  and  pernicious,  and  asserts 
that  its  activity,  which  recognizes  the  division  of  labor, 
лу111  set  all  right  again,  and  lead  men  to  happiness. 

It  appears,  then,  that  some  men  utilize  the  labor  of 
others  ;  but  if  thev  will  only  continue  to  do  this  for  a  long 
time,  and  on  a  still  larger  scale,  then  this  incorrect  distribu- 
tion of  wealth,  that  is,  utilizing  of  other  men's  labor,  will 
vanish. 

Men  are  standing  by  an  ever-increasing  spring  of  water, 
and  are  busy  turning  it  aside  from  thirst}-  men,  and  then 
the}"  assert  that  it  is  they  who  produce  this  Avater,  and  that 
soon  there  will  be  so  much  of  it  that  everybody  will  have 
enough  and  to  spare.  And  this  Avater,  which  has  been  run- 
ning unceasingly,  and  nourishing  all  mankind,  is  not  only 
not  the  result  of  the  activity  of  those  men.  who,  standing 
at  the  source  of  it.  turn  it  aside,  but  this  water  runs  and 
spreads  iiself  in  spite  of  the  endeaA'^ors  of  those  men  to  stop 
it  from  doing  so. 

There  has  always  existed  a  true  church.  —  in  other  words, 
men  united  b}'  the  iiighest  truth  accessible  to  them  at  a  cer- 
tain epoch.  —  but  it  has  never  been  that  church  which  gave 
herself  out  for  such  ;  and  there  Ьал-е  always  been  real  art  and 
science,  but  it  was  not  that  which  calls  itself  now  by  these 
names. 

Men  who  consider  themselves  to  be  the  representatives  of 
art  and  science  in  a  given  period  of  time,  always  imagine  that 
they  have  been  doing,  and  will  continue  to  do.  wonderful 
things,  and  that  beyond  them  there  has  never  been  any  art 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  193 

or  science.  Thus  it  seemed  to  the  sophists,  to  the  scho- 
liasts, alchemists,  cabiilists,  Tahmidists,  aud  to  our  owu 
scieutific  science  and  to  our  artistic  art. 


XXXVI. 

"  But  science  !  art!  You  repudiate  science,  art ;  that  is, 
you  repudiate  that  by  which  manl\iud  live." 

I  am  always  hearing  this  :  people  choose  this  way  to  put 
aside  ni}'  arguments  altogether  without  analyzing  them.  He 
repudiates  science  and  art ;  he  wishes  to  turn  men  back 
again  to  the  savage  state  ;  why,  then,  should  we  listen  to  him, 
or  argue  with  him? 

But  it  is  unjust.  I  not  only  do  not  repudiate  science  — 
human  reasonable  activity  —  and  art,  —  the  expression  of 
this  reasonable  activity,  — but  it  is  only  in  the  name  of  this 
reasonable  activity'  and  its  expression  that  I  say  what  I  do, 
in  order  that  mankind  may  avoid  the  savage  state  towards 
which  thev  are  rapidly  moving,  owing  to  the  false  teaching 
of  our  time. 

Science  and  art  are  as  necessary  to  men  as  food,  drink, 
and  clothes,  —  even  still  more  necessary  than  these  ;  but  they 
become  such,  not  because  we  decide  that  what  we  call  science 
and  art  are  necessary,  but  because  the}'  indeed  are  necessary 
to  men.  Now,  if  I  should  prepare  ha}'  for  the  bodily  food  of 
men,  my  idea  that  hay  is  the  food  for  men  would  not  make 
it  to  be  so.  I  cannot  say,  AVhy  do  you  not  eat  ha}'  when  it 
is  your  necessary  food  ?  Food  is,  indeed,  necessary,  but 
perhaps  Avhat  I  offer  is  not  food  at  all. 

This  very  thing  has  happened  with  our  science  and  art. 
And  to  us  it  seems  that  when  we  add  to  a  Greek  word  the 
tc'rmination  loyj/,  and  call  this  science,  it  will  be  science  in- 
deed ;  and  if  we  call  an  indecency,  like  the  dancing  of  nalced 
women,  by  the  Greek  word  "  choreography,"  and  term  it  art, 
it  will  be  art  indeed. 

But  however  much  we  may  say  this,  the  business  which  we 
are  about,  in  counting  up  the  insects,  and  chemically  analyz- 
ing the  contents  of  the  jMilky  Way.  in  painting  watcr-nyniphs 
and  historical  i)ictures,  in  writing  novels,  and  in  composing 
sym[)honies,  this,  our  business,  will  not  become  science  or 
art  until  it  is  willingly  accei)ted  by  those  for  whom  it  is  being 
done. 


194  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

And  till  now  it  has  not  been  accepted.  If  only  some  men 
were  allowed  to  ijrepare  food,  and  all  others  were  eitlier  for- 
bidden to  do  it,  or  be  rendered  incapable  of  producing  it,  I 
dare  say  that  the  quality  of  the  food  would  deteriorate.  If 
these  men  who  have  the  exclusive  privilege  of  producing 
food  were  Russian  peasants,  then  there  would  be  no  other 
food  than  black  bread,  kvas,  potatoes,  and  flour,  which  they 
are  fond  of,  and  which  is  agreeable  to  them.  The  same 
would  be  the  case  with  that  highest  human  activity  in  art  and 
science  if  their  exclusive  privilege  were  appropriated  by  one 
caste,  with  this  difference  onl>',  that  in  bodiW  food  there  can- 
not be  too  great  digressions  from  the  natural ;  bread  as  well 
as  onions,  though  unsavory  food,  is  still  eatable:  but  in 
mental  food,  there  may  be  great  digressions ;  and  some  men 
ma}^  for  a  very  long  time  feed  upon  an  unnecessary,  or  even 
hurtful  and  poisonous,  mental  food  ;  they  themselves  may 
slowly  kill  themselves  Avith  opium  or  with  spirits,  and  this 
sort  of  food  they  may  offer  to  the  masses  of  the  people. 

This  very  thing  has  happened  with  us.  And  it  has  hap- 
pened because  men  of  art  and  science  are  in  privileged  con- 
ditions ;  because  art  and  science  in  our  world  are  not  that 
mental  activity  of  all  mankind,  without  any  exception,  who 
separate  their  best  powers  for  the  service  of  art  and  science  : 
but  it  is  the  activity  of  a  snlall  comi)anv  of  men  having  the 
monopoly  of  these  occupations,  and  calling  themselves  men 
of  art  and  science  ;  and  therefore  the}'  have  perverted  the 
very  conceptions  of  art  and  science,  and  lost  the  sense 
of  their  own  calling,  and  are  merely  occupied  in  amusing, 
and  saving  from  burdensome  dulaess,  a  small  com[)any  of 
parasites. 

Since  men  have  existed,  the}'  have  always  had  science  in 
the  plainest  and  largest  sense  of  the  word.  Science,  as  the 
sum  of  all  human  information,  has  always  been  in  existence; 
and  without  it  life  is  not  conceivable,  and  there  is  no  neces- 
sity whatever  either  to  attack  or  to  defend  it. 

But  the  fact  is  this,  that  the  region  of  this  knowledge  is 
so  various,  so  much  information  of  all  kinds  enters  into  it, 
from  the  information  how  to  obtain  iron  up  to  the  knowledge 
about  the  movements  of  the  celestial  bodies,  that  man  would 
be  lost  among  all  this  varied  information  if  he  had  no  clew 
which  could  help  him  to  decide  which  of  all  these  kinds  of 
information  is  more,  and  which  less,  important. 

And,  therefore,  the  highest  wisdom  of   men  has   always 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUEN  ?  195 

consisted  in  findinfr  out  the  clew  accordino;  to  which  must  be 
arranged  the  information  of  men,  and  by  Avhich  decided  what 
kinds  of  information  are  more,  and  what  are  less,  important. 
And  tliis  which  has  directed  all  other  knowledge,  men  have 
always  called  science  in  the  strictest  sense  of  the  word.  And 
such  science  has  alwa\-s  been,  up  to  the  present  time,  in  hu- 
man societies  which  Ьал'е  left  the  savage  state  behind  them. 
Since  mankind  has  existed,  in  every  nation  teachers  have 
appeared  to  form  science  in  this  strict  sense,  —  the  science 
about  what  it  is  most  necessary  for  men  to  know.  This  sci- 
ence has  always  had  for  its  object  the  inquiry  as  to  what 
was  the  destinj-,  and  therefore  the  true  welfare,  of  each  man 
and  of  all  men.  This  science  has  served  as  a  clew  in  deter- 
mining the  importance  and  the  expression  of  all  other  sci- 
ences. The  kinds  of  information  and  the  art  which  co-operated 
with  the  science  of  man's  destiny  and  welfare  were  con- 
sidered highest  in  public  opinion. 

Such  was  the  science  of  Confucius,  Buddha,  Moses, 
Socrates,  Christ,  Mohammed,  — science  such  as  it  has  been 
understood  by  all  men  except  by  our  own  circle  of  so-called 
educated  people. 

Such  a  science  has  not  only  always  occupied  the  first  place, 
but  it  is  the  one  science  which  has  determined  the  importance 
of  other  sciences.  And  this,  not  at  all  because  so-called 
learned  men  of  our  time  imagine  that  it  is  only  deceitful 
priests  and  teachers  of  this  science  who  have  given  it  such 
an  importance,  but  because,  indeed,  as  every  one  can  learn 
by  his  own  inward  experience,  without  the  science  of  man's 
destiny  and  welfare,  there  cannot  be  any  determining  of 
other  values,  or  any  choice  of  art  and  science  for  man.  And, 
therefore,  there  cannot  be  any  stud}"  of  science,  for  there 
are  innumerable  quantities  of  subjects  to  which  science  may 
be  applied.  I  itaUcize  the  word  innumerable,  as  I  use  it  in 
its  exact  value. 

Without  knowledge  as  to  what  constitutes  the  calling  and 
welfare  of  all  men,  all  other  arts  and  sciences  become,  as  is 
really  the  case  at  present  with  us,  onh-  an  idle  and  pernicious 
amusement.  Mankind  have  been  living  long,  and  they  have 
never  been  living  witiiout  a  science  relative  to  the  calling  and 
welfare  of  men  :  it  is  true  that  the  science  of  the  welfare  of 
men  to  a  superficial  observation  appears  to  be  different  with 
Buddhists,  Brahmins.  Hebrews,  Christians,  with  the  f(jllo\vers 
of  Confucius  and  those  of    Laotse,  though  one    need  only 


196  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN? 

reflect  on  these  teachings  in  order  to  see  their  essential  unity; 
where  men  have  left  the  savage  state  behind  them,  we  find 
this  science  ;  and  now  of  a  sudden  it  turns  out  that  modern 
men  have  decided  that  this  very  science  whicli  has  been  till 
now  the  guide  of  all  human  information,  is  that  Avhich  is  in 
the  way  of  every  thing. 

Men  build  houses  :  one  architect  makes  one  estimate,  an- 
other makes  a  second,  and  so  on.  The  estimates  are  a  little 
different,  but  they  are  separately  correct ;  and  every  one  sees 
that,  if  each  estimate  is  fulfilled,  the  house  will  be  erected. 
Such  architects  are  Confucius,  Buddha,  Moses,  Christ.  And 
now  some  men  come  and  assure  us  that  the  chief  thing  to 
come  by  is  the  absence  of  any  estimate,  and  that  men  ought 
to  build  anyhow  according  to  eyesight.  And  this  "  ап}'- 
how  "  these  men  call  the  most  exact  science,  as  the  Pope 
terms  himself  the  "  most  holy." 

Men  deny  every  science,  the  most  essential  science  of 
man's  calling  and  welfare  ;  and  this  denial  of  science  they 
call  science.  Since  men  have  existed,  great  intellects  have 
always  appeared,  which,  in  the  struggle  with  the  demands  of 
their  reason  and  conscience,  have  put  to  themselves  questions 
concerning  the  calling  and  welfare,  not  only  of  themselves 
individually,  but  of  every  man.  AVhat  does  that  Power, 
which  created  me,  require  from  me  and  from  each  man? 
And  what  am  I  to  do  in  order  to  satisfy  the  craving  in- 
grafted in  me  for  a  personal  and  common  welfare? 

They  have  asked  themselves,  I  am  a  whole  and  a  part  of 
something  unfathomable,  infinite :  what  are  to  be  my  rela- 
tions to  other  parts  similar  to  me,  —  to  men  and  to  the  whole  ? 

And  from  the  voice  of  conscience  and  from  reason,  and 
from  considerations  on  what  men  have  said  who  lived  before, 
and  from  contemporaries  who  have  asked  themselves  the 
same  questions,  these  great  teachers  have  deduced  teachings, 
—  plain,  clear,  intelligible  to  all  men,  and  alwaj's  such  as 
could  be  put  into  practice. 

The  world  is  full  of  such  men.  All  living  men  put  to 
themselves  the  question.  How  am  I  to  reconcile  my  own 
demands  for  personal  life  with  conscience  and  reason,  which 
demand  the  common  good  of  all  men?  And  out  of  this  com- 
mon travail  are  evolved  slowh',  but  unceasingly,  new  forms 
of  life,  satisfying  more  and  more  the  demands  of  reason  and 
conscience. 

And  of  a  sudden  a  new  caste  of  men  appears,  who  say, 


WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    THEN?  197 

All  these  are  nonsense,  and  are  to  be  left  behind.  Tliis  is 
the  deductive  way  of  thinking  (thongh  wherein  lies  the  difti'r- 
ence  between  the  inductive  and  the  deductive  way  of  think- 
ing, nobody  ever  has  been  able  to  understand),  and  this  is 
also  the  method  of  the  theological  and  metaphysical  periods. 

All  that  men  have  understood  by  inward  experience,  and 
have  related  to  each  other  concerning  the  consciousness  of 
the  law  of  their  own  life  (functional  activity,  in  their  cant 
phrase)  ;  all  that  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  has  l)een 
done  in  this  direction  by  the  greatest  intellects  of  mankind,  — 
all  these  are  trifles,  having  no  weight  whatever. 

According  to  this  new  teaching.  You  are  a  cell  of  an 
organism,  and  the  problem  of  j^our  reasonable  activity  con- 
sists in  trying  to  ascertain  your  functional  activity.  In 
order  to  ascertain  this,  you  must  make  observations  outside 
yourself. 

The  fact  that  you  are  a  cell  which  thinks,  suffers,  speaks, 
and  understands,  and  that  for  that  ver}'  reason  3'ou  can 
inquire  of  another  similar  speaking,  suffering  cell  whether  he 
or  she  suffers  and  rejoices  in  the  same  Avay  as  yourself,  and 
that  thus  you  may  verify  your  own  experience  ;  and  the  fact 
that  you  may  make  use  of  what  the  speaking  cells,  who  lived 
and  suffered  before  you  wrote  on  the  subject ;  and  your 
knowledge  that  millions  of  cells,  agreeing  with  what  the  past 
cells  have  written,  confirm  your  own  experience,  that  you 
yourself  are  a  living  cell,  who  always,  %  a  direct  inward 
experience,  apprehend  tiie  correctness  or  incorrectness  of 
your  own  functional  activity,  —  all  this  means  nothing,  we 
are  told  :  it  is  all  a  false  and  evil  method. 

The  true  scientific  method  is  this  :  If  you  wish  to  learn 
in  what  consists  your  functional  activity,  what  is  з'опг  des- 
tiny and  welfare,  and  what  the  destinj-  of  mankind,  and  of 
the  whole  world,  then  first  you  must  cease  to  listen  to  the 
voice  and  demands  of  your  conscience  and  of  your  reason, 
which  manifest  themselves  inwardly  to  3'ou  and  to  your  fel- 
low-men ;  you  must  leave  off  believing  all  the  great  teachers 
of  humanity  have  said  about  their  own  conscience  and  reason, 
and  3'ou  must  consider  all  this  to  be  nonsense,  and  begin 
at  the  beginning. 

And  in  order  to  begin  from  the  l>eginning,  3'ou  have  to 
observe  through  a  microscope  the  movements  of  amoebce 
and  the  cells  of  tape-worms  ;  or,  still  easier,  you  must  l)e- 
lieve  every  thing  that  people  with  the  diploma  of  infallibility 


198  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

may  tell  you  about  them.  And  observing  the  movements  of 
these  amoebae  and  cells,  or  reading  what  others  have  seen, 
you  must  ascribe  to  these  cells  your  own  human  feelings  and 
calculations  as  to  what  they  desire,  what  are  their  tendencies, 
their  reflections  and  calculations,  their  habits ;  and  from 
these  observations  (in  which  each  word  contains  some  mis- 
take of  thought  or  of  expression),  according  to  analogy,  you 
must  deduce  what  is  your  own  destiny,  and  what  that  of  other 
cells  similar  to  you. 

In  order  to  be  able  to  understand  yourself,  з'ои  must  study 
not  merely  the  tape-worm  which  you  see,  but  also  micro- 
scopic animalcules  which  you  cannot  see,  and  the  transfor- 
mation from  one  set  of  beings  into  another,  which  neither 
you  nor  anybody  else  has  ever  seen,  and  which  you  certainly 
will  never  see. 

The  same  holds  good  with  art.  AVherever  a  true  science 
has  existed,  it  has  been  expressed  by  art.  Since  men  have 
existed  they  have  always  separated  out  of  all  their  activities, 
from  their  varied  information,  the  chief  expression  of  science, 
the  knowledge  of  man's  destination  and  welfare  ;  and  art, 
in  the  strict  sense  of  the  vv'ord,  has  been  the  expression  of 
this. 

Since  men  have  existed,  there  have  always  been  persons 
particularly  sensitive  to  tlie  teaching  of  man's  welfare  and 
destiny,  who  have  expressed  in  word,  and  upon  psaltery 
and  cymbals,  their  human  struggle  with  deceit  which  led  them 
aside  from  their  true  destiny,  and  their  sufferings  in  this 
struggle,  their  hopes  about  the  victory  of  good,  their  despair 
about  the  triumph  of  evil,  and  their  raptures  in  expectation 
of  coming  welfare. 

Since  men  have  existed,  the  true  art,  that  which  has  been 
valued  by  men  most  highl3%  had  no  other  destiny  than  to  be 
the  expression  of  science  on  man's  destiny  and  welfare. 

Always  down  to  the  present  time  art  has  served  the  teach- 
ing of  life  (afterwards  called  religion),  and  it  has  on\y  been 
this  art  which  men  has-e  valued  so  highh'. 

But  contemporaneously  with  the  fact  that  in  the  place  of 
the  science  of  man's  destiny  and  welfare  appeared  the  science 
of  universal  knowledge,  since  science  lost  its  own  sense  and 
meaning,  and  the  true  science  has  been  scornfully  called 
r.'ligion,  true  art,  as  an  important  activit}'  of  men,  has  dis- 
appeared. 

As  long  as  the  church  existed,  and  taught  man's  calling 


WHAT  MUST  wn:  do  then?  199 

and  welfare,  art  served  the  church,  and  was  true ;  but  from 
the  moment  it  left  the  church,  and  begtui  to  serve  a  science 
which  served  every  thing  it  met,  art  lost  its  meaning,  and, 
notwithstanding  its  old-fashioned  claims,  and  a  stui)id  asser- 
tion that  art  serves  merel}^  art  itself,  and  nothing  else,  it 
turned  out  to  be  a  trade  which  procures  luxuries  for  men,  and 
unaA'Oidabl}'  mixes  itself  with  choreography,  culiuaiy  art, 
hair-dfessiug,  and  cosmetics,  the  producers  of  which  may 
call  themselves  artists  with  the  same  riglit  as  the  poets, 
painters,  and  musicians  of  our  day. 

Looking  back,  we  see  that  during  thousands  of  years,  from 
among  thousands  of  millions  of  men  who  have  lived,  there 
came  forth  a  few  like  Confucius,  Buddlia,  Solon,  Socrates, 
Solomon,  Homer,  Isaiah,  David.  Apparently  true  artist- 
producers  of  spiritual  food  appear  seldom  among  men,  not- 
Avithstanding  the  fact  that  they  aj^pear,  not  from  one  caste 
onl}-,  but  from  among  all  men  ;  and  it  is  not  without  cause 
that  mankind  have  always  so  highly  valued  them.  And  now 
it  turns  out  tliat  we  have  no  longer  any  need  of  all  these 
former  great  factors  of  art  and  science. 

Now,  according  to  the  law  of  the  division  of  labor,  it  is 
possil)le  to  manufacture  scientific  and  artistic  factors  almost 
mechanically  ;  and  we  shall  manufacture  in  the  space  of  ten 
years,  more  great  men  of  art  and  science  than  have  been  l)orii 
among  all  men  from  the  beginning  of  the  world.  Now.a- 
days  there  is  a  trade  corporation  of  learned  men  and  artists, 
and  they  prepare  by  an  improved  way  all  the  mental  food 
which  is  wanted  by  mankind.  And  they  have  prepared  so 
much  of  it,  that  there  need  no  longer  be  any  rememl)ranee 
of  the  old  producers,  not  only  of  the  very  ancient,  l)ut  of 
more  recent,  ones,  —  all  this,  we  are  told,  was  the  activity 
of  the  theological  and  metai>liysical  i)eriod  :  all  had  to  lie 
destroyed,  and  the  true,  mental  activit}^  began  some  fifty 
3'ears  ago. 

And  in  these  fifty  years  we  have  manufactured  so  many 
great  men  that  in  a  (German  university  there  are  more  of  them 
than  have  been  in  the  whole  world,  and  of  sciences  we  have 
manufactured  a  great  number  too  ;  for  one  need  onl}'  put  to 
a  Greek  word  the  termination  logy,  and  arrange  the  sub- 
ject according  to  read^'-made  paragraphs,  and  the  science  is 
made  :  we  have  thus  mamifactured  so  many  sciences  that  not 
only  one  man  cannot  know  them  all,  l)ut  he  cannot  even 
remember  all   their  names,  —  these   names  alone  would   1111 


200  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

a  large  dictionary ;  and  every  day  new  sciences  come  into 
existence. 

In  tliis  respect  we  are  like  that  Finnish  teacher  who  taught 
the  cliildren  of  a  land-owner  the  Finuisli  lang'uage  instead  of 
the  French.  He  taught  very  well  ;  but  there  was  one  draw- 
back,—  that  nobody,  except  himself,  understood  it. 

But  to  this  there  is  also  an  explanation  :  Men  do  not 
understand  all  the  utility  of  the  scientific  science  because  they 
are  still  under  the  influence  of  the  theological  period  of 
knowledge,  that  stupid  period  when  all  the  people  of  the 
Hebrew  race,  as  well  as  the  Chinese  and  Indians  and  Greeks, 
understood  every  thing  spoken  to  them  by  their  great  teachers. 

But  whatever  may  be  the  cause,  the  fact  is  this,  —  that  art 
and  science  have  always  existed  among  mankind  ;  and  when 
they  really  existed,  then  they  were  necessary  and  intelligible 
to  all  men. 

We  are  busy  about  something  which  we  call  art  and  science, 
and  it  turns  out  that  what  we  are  busy  about  is  neitlier 
necessary  nor  intelligible  to  men.  And  therefore,  however 
fine  the  things  we  are  about  may  be,  we  have  no  right  to  call 
them  art  and  science. 

XXXVII. 

But  it  is  said  to  me,  "  You  only  give  another  narrower  defi- 
nition of  art  and  science,  which  science  does  not  agree  with  ; 
but  even  this  does  not  exclude  them,  and  notv\4thstanding  all 
you  say,  there  still  remains  the  scientific  and  art  activities  of 
men  like  Galileo,  Bruno,  Homer,  Michael  Angelo,  Beethoven, 
Wagner,  and  other  learned  men  and  artists  of  lesser  magni- 
tude  who  have  devoted  all  their  lives  to  ail  and  science." 

Usually  this  is  said  in  the  endeavor  to  establish  a  link 
connecting  the  activity  of  former  learned  men  and  artists 
with  the  modern  ones,  trjnng  to  forget  that  new  princiiile  of 
the  division  of  labor  by  reason  of  which  art  and  science  are 
occupying  now  a  privileged  position. 

First  of  all,  it  is  not  possible  to  establish  any  such  connec- 
tion between  the  former  factors  and  the  modern  ones,  as  the 
holy  life  of  the  first  Christian  has  nothing  in  common  with 
the  lives  of  popes  :  thus,  the  activity  of  men  like  Galileo, 
Shakspeare,  Вее1Ьол'еп,  has  nothing  in  common  witli  the  ac- 
tivities of  men  like  Tyndal.  Hugo,  and  Wagner.  As  the  Holy 
Fathers  would  have  denied  any  connection  with  the  Popes, 


WUAT  MUST   WE  no   THEN?  201 

so  the  ancient  factors   of   science    would   have    denied  any 
relationship  with  tlie  modern  ones. 

And  secondly,  owing  U>  that  importance  which  art  and 
science  ascribe  to  themselves,  we  have  a  ver}'  clear  standard 
established  by  them  by  means  of  which  we  are  able  to  deter- 
mine whether  they  do,  or  do  not,  fulfil  their  destiny  ;  and  we 
therefore  decide,  not  without  proofs,  but  according  to  their 
own  standard,  whether  that  activity  which  calls  itself  art  and 
science  has,  or  has  not,  any  right  to  call  itself  thus. 

Though  the  Egj'ptians  or  Greek  priests  performed  mys- 
teries known  to  none  but  themselves,  and  said  that  these 
mysteries  included  all  ai't  and  science,  I  could  not,  on  the 
ground  of  the  asserted  utility  of  these  to  the  people,  ascertain 
the  reality  of  their  science,  because  this  said  science,  accord- 
ing to  their  ipse  dixit,  was  a  supernatural  one  :  but  now  we 
all  Ьал'е  a  very  clear  and  plain  standard,  excluding  every 
tiling  supernatural ;  art  and  science  promise  to  put  forth  the 
mental  activity  of  mankind  for  the  welfare  of  society,  or  even 
of  the  whole  of  mankind.  And  therefore  we  have  a  right  to 
call  only  such  activity,  art  and  science,  which  has  this  aim 
in  view,  and  attains  it.  And  therefore,  however  those  learned 
men  and  artists  may  call  themselves,  who  excogitate  the  the- 
ory of  penal  laws,  of  state  laws,  and  of  the  laws  of  nations, 
who  invent  new  guns  and  explosive  substances,  who  compose 
obscene  operas  and  operettas,  or  similarly  obscene  novels, 
we  have  no  right  to  call  such  activity  the  activity  of  art  and 
science,  because  this  activity  has  not  in  view  the  welfare  of 
the  society  oi'  of  mankind,  but  on  the  contrary  it  is  directed 
to  the  harm  of  men.  Therefore  none  of  these  efforts  are 
either  ai't  or  science. 

In  like  manner,  however,  these  learned  men  may  call  them- 
selves, who  in  their  simplicity  are  occupied  during  all  tiieir 
lives  with  the  investigations  of  the  microscopical  animalcule 
and  of  telescopical  and  spectral  jihenomena ;  or  those  artists 
wlio,  after  having  carefully  investigated  the  monuments  of 
old  times,  are  busy  writing  historical  novels,  making  pictures, 
concocting  symphonies  and  beautiful  verses.  All  these  men, 
notwithstanding  all  their  zeal,  cannot  be,  according  to  the 
d;'luiition  of  their  own  science,  called  men  of  science  and  art, 
(list  liecause  their  activity  in  science  for  the  sake  of  science, 
and  of  art  for  art,  has  not  in  view  man's  welfare  ;  and  sec- 
ondly, because  we  do  not  see  any  results  of  these  activities 
for  the  welfare  of  society  or  maukiud. 


202  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

Aud  the  fact  that  sometimes  something  comes  of  their 
activities  useful  or  agreeable  for  some  meu,  as  out  of  every 
thing  something  useful  and  agreeable  may  result  for  some 
men,  by  no  means  gives  us  any  right,  according  to  their  own 
scieutihc  definition,  to  consider  them  to  be  meu  of  art  aud 
science. 

In  like  manner,  however  those  men  may  call  themselves 
who  excogitate  the  application  of  electricity  to  lighting,  heat- 
ing, and  motion  ;  or  who  inveut  some  new  chemical  combi- 
nations, producing  dynamite  or  fine  colors ;  men  who 
correctly  play  Beethoven's  symphonies  ;  who  act  on  the  stage, 
or  paint  portraits  well,  domestic  pictures,  landscapes,  and 
other  pictures  ;  who  compose  interesting  novels,  the  object 
of  which  is  raerel}'  to  amuse  rich  people,  —  the  activity  of 
these  men,  I  sa}^  cannot  be  called  art  and  science,  because 
this  activity  is  not  directed,  like  the  activitj^  of  the  brain  in 
the  organism,  to  the  welfare  of  the  whole,  but  is  guided 
merel}'  by  personal  gain,  privileges,  money,  which  one  obtains 
for  the  inventing  and  producing  of  so-called  art ;  and  there- 
fore this  activity  cannot  possibly  be  separated  from  other 
covetous,  personal  activity,  which  adds  agreeable  things  to 
life,  like  the  activity  of  innkeepers,  jockeys,  milliners,  and 
prestitutes,  and  so  on,  because  the  activity  of  the  first,  the 
second,  and  the  last,  do  not  come  under  the  definition  of  art 
and  science,  on  the  ground  of  the  division  of  labor,  which 
promises  to  serve  for  tiie  welfare  of  all  mankind. 

The  scientific  definition  of  art  and  science  is  a  correct  one  ; 
but  nnluckil3\  the  activity  of  modern  art  and  science  does  not 
come  under  it.  Some  produce  directly  luirtful  things,  oth- 
ers useless  things  ;  and  a  third  part}'  invent  trifles  fit  only 
for  the  use  of  rich  people.  They  may  all  be  very  good  per- 
sons, but  the}'  do  not  fulfil  what  they,  according  to  their  own 
definition,  have  taken  upon  themselves  to  fulfil ;  and  therefoi-o 
the}'  liave  as  little  right  to  call  themselves  men  of  art  aud 
science  as  the  modern  clergy,  who  do  not  fulfil  their  duties, 
have  the  right  to  cousider  themselves  the  bearers  and  teach- 
ers of  divine  truth. 

And  it  is  not  difficnlt  to  nnderstand  why  the  factors  of 
modern  art  and  science  have  not  fulfilled,  aud  cannot  fulfil, 
their  calluig.  They  do  not  fulfil  it,  liecause  they  have  con- 
verted their  duty  into  a  riglit.  Tlie  scientific  and  art  activi- 
ties, in  their  true  sense,  are  fruitful  only  when  they  ignore 
their  rights,  aud  know  only  their  duties.     Mankind  value 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   TUEN  ?  203 

this  activity  so  highl}-,  only  because  it  is  a  sclf-deuying 
one. 

If  men  are  really  called  to  serve  others  by  mental  labor, 
they  will  have  to  suffer  in  performing  this  labor,  because  it 
is  only  b}'  sufferings  that  spiritual  fruit  is  produced.  Self- 
denying  and  suffering  are  the  lot  and  portion  of  a  thinker 
and  an  artist,  because  their  object  is  the  welfare  of  men. 
Men  are  wretched  :  they  suffer  and  go  to  ruin.  One  cannot 
wait  and  lose  one's  time. 

A  thinker  and  an  artist  will  never  sit  on  the  heights  of 
Olympus,  as  we  are  apt  to  imagine  :  he  must  suffer  in  com- 
pany with  men  in  order  to  find  salvation  or  consolation.  He 
will  suffer  because  he  is  constantly  in  anxiet}'  and  agitation  : 
he  might  have  found  out  and  told  what  would  give  happiness 
to  men,  might  have  saved  them  from  suft'ering  ;  and  he  has 
neither  found  it  out  nor  said  it,  and  to-morrow  it  may  be  too 
late  —  he  may  die.  And  therefore  suffei'iug  and  self-sacrifice 
will  always  be  the  lot  of  the  thinker  and  the  artist. 

Not  that  man  will  become  a  thinker  and  an  artist  who 
is  brought  up  in  an  estal)lishment  where  learned  men  and 
artists  are  ci'eated  (but,  in  reality,  they  create  only  destroy- 
ers of  art  and  science),  and  who  obtains  a  di|jloma,  and  is 
well  provided  for,  for  life,  but  he  who  would  gladly  abstain 
from  thinking,  and  expressing  that  which  is  ingrafted  in  his 
soul,  but  whicli  lie  cannot  ovei'look,  being  drawn  to  it  by  two 
ii'resistihle  powers,  —  his  own  inward  impulse  and  the  wants 
of  men. 

Thinkers  and  artists  cannot  be  sleek,  fat  men,  enjoying 
themselves,  and  self-conceited.  Spiritual  and  mental  activ- 
ity and  their  expression,  are  really  necessary  for  others,  and 
are  the  most  diMieult  of  men's  callings, — a  cross,  as  it  is 
called  in  the  gospel. 

And  the  only  one  certain  characteristic  of  the  presence  of 
a  calling  is  the  self-denying,  the  sacrifice  of  one's  self  in 
order  to  manifest  thepower  iu  grafted  in  man  for  the  benefit 
of  others.  To  teach  how  many  insects  there  are  iu  the 
world,  and  observe  the  spots  on  the  sun,  to  write  novels  and 
operas,  can  be  done  without  suffering  ;  but  to  teach  men  their 
wi'lfare,  which  entirely  consists  in  self-denial,  and  in  serving 
otiiers,  and  to  express  powerfully  this  teaching,  cannot  be 
done  without  self-denial. 

The  Churcii  existed  in  her  ]iurity  as  long  as  her  teachers 
endured  patiently  and  suffered  ;  but  as  soon  as  they  became 


204  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN? 

fat  and  sleek,  their  teaching  activity  was  ended.  "Formerly," 
say  the  people,  "  priests  were  of  gold,  and  chalices  of  wood  ; 
now  chalices  are  of  gold,  and  priests  of  wood."  It  was  not 
in  vain  that  Christ  died  on  a  cross  :  it  is  not  in  vain  that 
sacrifice  and  suffering  conquer  every  thing. 

And  as  for  our  art  and  sciences,  tliey  are  provided  for : 
the}^  have  diplomas,  and  everybody  is  only  thinking  about 
how  to  provide  still  bettei'  for  them  ;  that  is,  to  make  it  im- 
possible for  them  to  serve  men.  A  true  art  and  a  true 
science  have  two  unmistaka1)le  characteristics,  —  the  first,  aa 
interior  one,  that  a  minister  of  art  or  science  fulfils  his  calling, 
not  for  the  sake  of  gain,  but  with  self-denial  ;  and  the  second, 
an  exterior  one,  that  his  productions  are  intelligible  to  all 
men,  whose  welfare  he  is  aiming  at. 

Whatever  men  may  consider  to  be  their  destiny  and  wel- 
fare, science  will  be  the  teacher  of  this  destiny  and  welfare, 
and  art  the  expression  of  this  teaching.  The  laws  of  Solon, 
of  Confucius,  are  science  ;  the  teachings  of  Moses,  of  Christ, 
are  science  ;  the  temples  in  Athens,  the  psalms  of  David, 
church  worship,  are  art :  but  finding  out  the  fourth  dimension 
of  matter,  and  tabulating  chomical  combinations,  and  so  on, 
have  never  been,  and  never  will  be,  science. 

The  place  of  true  science  is  occupied,  in  our  time,  by 
theology  and  law  ;  the  place  of  true  art  is  occupied  by  the 
church  and  state  ceremonies,  in  which  nobody  believes,  and 
which  are  not  considered  seriously  by  anybody  :  and  tliat 
which  with  us  is  called  art  and  science,  is  only  the  productions 
of  idle  minds  and  feelings  which  have  in  view  to  stimulate 
similarly  idle  minds  and  feelings,  and  which  are  nnintelligible 
and  dumb  for  the  people,  because  they  have  not  their  welfare 
in  view. 

Since  we  have  known  the  lives  of  men,  we  alwa3's  and 
ever^'where  have  found  a  ruling  false  doctrine,  calling  itself 
science,  which  does  not  show  men  the  true  meaning  of  life, 
but  rather  hides  it  from  them. 

So  it  was  among  the  Egyptians,  the  Indians,  the  Chinese, 
and  partially  among  the  Greeks  (sophists)  ;  and  among  the 
mystics.  Gnostics,  and  cabalists  ;  in  the  Middle  Ages,  in 
theology,  scholasticism,  alchemy  ;  and  so  on  down  to  our 
days.  How  fortunate  indeed  are  we  to  be  living  in  such  a 
pci  iiliar  time,  when  that  mental  activity  which  calls  itself 
science  is  not  onl}'  free  from  errors,  but.  as  we  are  assured, 
is  in  a  state  of  peculiar  progress  !    Does  not  this  good  fortune 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  205 

come  from  the  fact  that  man  can  not  and  will  not  see  his  own 
defoi'inities?  While  of  the  sciences  of  theologians,  and  that 
of  cabalists,  nothing  is  left  but  empty  words,  why  bhould  we 
be  so  particularly  fortunate? 

The  characteristics  of  our  and  of  former  times  are  quite 
similar :  there  is  the  same  self-conceit  and  blind  assurance 
that  we  onl}-  are  on  the  true  wa}-,  and  that  only  with  us  true 
knowledge  begins  ;  there  are  the  same  expectations  that  we 
shall  presently  discover  something  very  wonderful ;  and 
there  is  the  same  exposure  of  our  error,  in  the  fact  that  all 
our  wisdom  remains  with  us,  while  the  masses  of  the  people 
do  not  understand  it,  and  neither  accept  nor  want  it.  (3ur 
position  is  a  very  difficult  one,  but  why  should  we  not  look 
it  in  the  face  ? 

It  is  time  to  come  to  our  senses,  and  to  look  more  closel}' 
to  ourselves.  We  are,  indeed,  nothing  but  scribes  and  Phar- 
isees, who,  sitting  in  Moses'  seat,  and  having  the  key  of  the 
kingdom  of  God,  do  not  enter  themselves,  and  refuse  entrance 
to  others. 

We.  priests  of  art  and  science,  are  most  wretched  deceivers, 
who  have  nuich  less  right  to  our  position  than  the  most 
cunning  and  depraved  priests  ever  had. 

For  our  privileged  position,  there  is  no  excuse  whatever: 
we  have  taken  u[)  this  position  by  a  kind  of  swindling,  and 
we  retain  it  by  deceit.  Pagan  priests,  the  clergy,  as  well 
Eussian  as  Roman  Catholic,  however  depraved  they  may 
have  been,  had  rights  to  their  position,  because  they  pro- 
fessed to  teach  men  about  life  and  salvation.  And  we,  who 
have  cut  the  ground  from  under  their  feet,  and  proved  to  men 
that  they  were  deceivers,  we  have  taken  their  place,  and  not 
only  do  not  teach  men  about  life,  we  even  acknowledge  that 
there  is  no  necessity  for  them  to  learn.  We  suck  the  blood 
of  the  people,  and  for  this  we  teach  our  children  Greek  and 
Latin  grammars  in  order  that  they  also  may  continue  the 
same  i)arasitic  life  which  we  are  living. 

We  say.  There  have  been  castes,  we  will  abolish  them. 
But  what  means  the  fact  that  some  men  and  their  chihlren 
work,  and  oilier  men  and  tiieir  children  do  not  work? 

Bring  a  Hindu  who  does  not  know  our  language,  and 
show  him  the  Russian  and  tlie  Kuropean  lives  of  many  gener- 
ations, and  he  will  recognize  the  existence  of  two  important 
detinite  castes  of  Avorking-peopk"  and  of  non-working-people 
as  they  are  in  existence  in  liis  own  country.     As  m  his  couu- 


206  WUAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

tiy,  so  also  among  iis,  the  right  of  not  \vorking  is  acquired 
through  a  peculiar  initiation  which  we  call  art  and  science, 
and  generally  education. 

This  education  it  is,  and  the  perversions  of  reason  as- 
sociated with  it,  that  have  brouglit  us  to  this  w'onderful 
folly,  whence  it  has  come  to  pass  that  we  do  not  see  what  is 
so  plain  and  certain.  We  are  eating  up  the  lives  of  our 
brethren,  and  consider  ourselves  to  be  Christians,  humane, 
educated,  and  quite  righteous  people. 


XXXVIII. 

What  is  to  be  done?     What  must  we  do? 

This  question,  which  includes  the  acknowledgment  of  the 
fact  that  our  life  is  bad  and  unrighteous,  and  at  the  same 
time  hints  that  there  is  no  possibility  of  changing  it, — this 
question  1  hear  everywhere,  and  therefore  I  chose  it  for  the 
title  of  my  work.  ^ 

I  have  described  my  own  sufferings,  ni}^  search,  and  the 
answer  which  I  have  found  to  this  question. 

lama  man,  like  all  others;  and  if  I  distinguish  myself 
from  an  average  man  of  my  own  circle  in  any  thing,  it  is 
chierty  in  the  fact  that  I,  more  than  this  average  man,  have 
served  and  indulged  the  false  teaching  of  our  world,  that 
1  have  been  praised  by  the  men  of  the  prevalent  school  of 
teaching,  and  that  therefore  1  must  be  more  depraved,  and 
have  gone  farther  astray,  than  most  of  my  fellows. 

Therefore  I  think  that  the  answer  to  this  question  луЬ1сЬ  I 
have  found  for  myself  will  do  for  all  sincere  persons  who 
will  put  the  same  question  to  themselves.  First  of  all,  to 
the  question,  "What  is  to  be  done?"  I  answer  that  we 
must  neither  deceive  other  men  nor  ourselves  ;  that  we  must 
not  be  afraid  of  the  truth,  whatever  the  result  may  be. 

We  all  know  what  it  is  to  deceive  other  men  ;  and  notwith- 
standing this,  we  do  deceive  from  morning  to  evening,  — 
'■  Not  at  home,"  wiien  I  am  in  ;  "  Very  glad,"  when  I  am 
not  at  all  glad;  '•  P^steemed,"  w'hen  I  do  not  esteem;  "I 
have  no  money,"  Avhen  I  have  it,  and  so  ou. 

We  consider  the  deception  of  others,  particularly  a  cer- 
tain kind  of  deception,  to  be  evil;  but  we  are  not  afraid 
to  deceive  oui'selves':  but  the  worst  direct  lie  to  men.  seeing 
its  result,  is  nothing  in  comparison  with  that  lie  to  ourselves 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  207 

according  to  луИюЬ  we  shape  our  lives.  Now,  this  very  lie 
we  must  avoid  if  we  wish  to  be  able  to  answer  the  question, 
^^What  is  to  be  clone?" 

And,  indeed,  how  am  I  to  answer  the  question  as  to 
what  is  to  be  done,  when  ever}^  thing  I  do,  all  my  life,  is 
based  upon  a  lie  and  I  carefully  give  out  this  lie  for  truth 
to  others  and  to  mj'self?  Not  to  lie  in  this  sense  means 
.  to  be  not  afraid  of  truth  ;  not  to  invent  excuses,  and  not  to 
accept  excuses  invented  by  others,  in  order  to  hide  from  one's 
self  the  deduction  of  reason  and  conscience  ;  not  to  be  afraid 
of  contradicting  all  our  environmeut,  and  of  being  left  alone 
with  reason  and  conscience  ;  not  to  be  afraid  of  that  con- 
dition to  which  truth  and  conscience  lead  us  :  however  dreadful 
it  may  be,  it  cannot  be  worse  than  that  which  is  based  upon 
deceit. 

To  avoid  lying,  for  men  in  our  privileged  position  of 
mental  labor,  means  not  to  be  afraid  of  learning.  Perhaps 
we  owe  so  much  that  we  should  never  be  able  to  pay  it  all ; 
but,  however  much  we  may  owe,  луе  must  make  out  our  bill : 
however  far  we  have  gone  astray,  it  is  better  to  return  than 
to  continue  straying. 

Lying  to  our  fellows  is  always  disadvantageous.  Every 
l)usiness  is  always  more  directly  done,  and  more  quickly  too, 
by  truth  than  by  lies.  Lying  to  otlier  men  makes  the  mat- 
ter only  more  complicated,,  and  retards  the  decision  ;  but 
lying  to  one's  self,  which  is  given  out  to  be  the  truth,  entirely 
ruius  the  life  of  man. 

If  a  man  considers  a  wrong  road  to  be  a  right  one,  then 
his  every  step  onl}'  leads  him  farther  from  his  aim  :  a  man 
who  has  been  walking  for  a  long  time  on  a  wrong  road  may 
hud  out  for  himself,  or  be  told  by  others,  that  his  road  is  a 
wrong  one  ;  but  if  he,  being  afraid  of  the  thought  of  how 
far  he  has  gone  astray,  tries  to  assure  himself  that  he  ma}', 
by  following  this  wrong  \vay,  still  come  across  the  right  one, 
then  he  will  certainly  never  find  it.  If  a  man  becomes 
afraid  of  the  truth,  and,  on  seeing  it,  will  not  acknowledge 
it,  Ijut  takes  falsehood  for  truth,  then  this  man  will  never  learn 
what  is  to  be  done. 

We,  not  only  rich  men,  but  men  in  a  privileged  position, 
so-called  educated  men,  have  gone  so  far  astray  that  we 
require  either  a  firm  resolution  or  very  great  sufferings  on  our 
false  way  in  onler  to  come  to  our  senses  again,  and  to  recog- 
nize the  lie  by  which  we  live. 


208  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

I  became  aware  of  the  lie  of  our  life,  thanks  to  those  suf- 
ferings to  which  my  wrong  road  led  me ;  and,  havinir 
acknowledged  the  error  of  the  way  on  which  I  was  bent,  1 
had  the  boldness  to  go,  first  in  theory,  then  in  reality, 
wherever  my  reason  and  conscience  led  me,  without  any  de- 
liberation as  to  whither  they  were  tending. 

And  I  was  rewarded. 

All  the  соиц)1ех,  disjointed,  intricate,  and  meaningless 
phenomena  of  life  surrounding  me  became  of  a  sudden  clear  ; 
and  ш}'  position,  formerly  so  strange  and  vile,  among  these 
phenomena,  became  of  a  sudden  natural  and  easy. 

And  in  this  new  situation  my  activity  has  exactly  deter- 
mined itself,  but  it  is  quite  a  different  activity  from  that 
which  appeared  possible  to  me  before  :  it  is  a  new  activity, 
far  more  quiet,  affectionate,  and  joyous.  The  very  thing 
which  frightened  me  before,  now  attracts  me. 

And  therefore,  I  think  that  every  one  who  sincerely  puts 
to  himself  the  question,  "What  is  to  be  done?"  and  in 
answering  this  question,  does  not  lie  or  deceive  himself,  but 
goes  whei'ever  his  reason  and  conscience  may  lead  him,  that 
man  has  already  answered  the  question. 

If  he  will  only  avoid  deceiving  himself,  he  will  find  out 
what  to  do,  where  to  go,  and  how  to  act.  Tiiere  is  only  one 
thing  which  may  hinder  him  in  finding  an  answer,  —  that 
is  a  too  high  estimate  of  himself,  and  his  own  position. 
So  it  was  with  me  ;  and  therefore  the  second  answei-  to  the 
question,  "  What  is  to  be  done?"  resulting  from  the  first, 
consisted  for  me  in  repenting,  in  the  full  meaning  of  this 
word,  that  is,  entirely  changing  the  estimate  of  my  own 
position  and  activity  ;  instead  of  considering  such  to  be  use- 
ful and  of  importance,  we  must  come  to  acknowledge  it  to 
be  harmful  and  trifiing ;  instead  of  considering  ourselves 
educated,  we  must  get  to  see  our  ignorance  ;  instead  of 
imagining  ourselves  to  be  kind  and  moral,  we  must  acknowl- 
edge tliat  we  are  immoral  and  cruel ;  instead  of  our  impor- 
tance, we  must  see  our  owm  insignificance. 

I  say,  that  besides  avoiding  lying  to  mj'self ,  I  had  more- 
over to  repent^  because,  though  the  one  results  from  the 
other,  the  wrong  idea  about  my  great  importance  Avas  so 
much  a  part  of  my  own  nature,  that  until  I  had  sincerely 
repented,  and  had  put  aside  tliat  wrong  estimate  of  myself 
wliicli  I  had,  I  did  not  see  the  enormity  of  the  lie  of  which  J 
had  been  guilty. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    TIIENf  209 

It  was  only  when  I  repented,  — that  is,  left  off  considering 
myself  to  be  a  peculiar  man,  and  began  to  consider  myself 
to  be  like  all  other  men,  —  it  was  then  that  my  way  became 
clear  to  me.  Before  this,  I  was  not  al)le  to  answer  the  ques- 
tion, ''What  is  to  be  done?"  because  the  very  question  it- 
self was  put  incorrectly. 

liefore  I  repented,  I  had  put  the  question  thus:  "What 
activit}'  should  I  choose,  I,  the  man  with  the  education  I 
have  acquired?  How  can  I  compensate  by  this  education 
and  these  talents  for  what  I  have  been  taking  away  from  the 
people  ? ' ' 

This  question  was  a  false  one,  because  it  included  a  wrong 
idea  as  to  my  not  being  like  other  men,  but  a  peculiar  man, 
called  to  serve  other  men  with  those  talents  and  that  educa- 
tion which  I  had  acquired  in  forty  years. 

I  had  put  the  question  to  myself,  but  in  reality  I  had  already 
answered  it  in  advance  by  having  determined  befoi-ehand  the 
kind  of  activit}'  agreeable  to  myself  by  which  I  was  called 
u[)on  to  serve  men.  I  really  asked  myself,  "  How  have  I, 
so  fine  a  writer,  one  so  very  well  informed,  and  with  sueh 
talents,  how  can  1  utilize  them  for  the  benefit  of  man- 
kind?" 

But  the  question  ought  to  have  been  put  thus,  as  it  would 
have  to  be  put  to  a  learned  rabbi  wlio  had  studied  all  the 
Tiibnud,  and  knew  the  exact  number  of  the  letters  in  tlie 
Holy  Scripture,  and  all  the  subtleties  of  his  science  :  "  AVliat 
have  I  to  do,  who,  from  unlucky  circumstances,  have  lost 
my  best  years  in  study  instead  of  accustoming  myself  to 
lai)or,  in  leaiMiing  the  French  language,  the  piano,  grannnar, 
geography,  law,  poetry  ;  in  reading  novels,  romances,  philo- 
soi)iiical  tlieories,  and  in  performing  military  exercises?  what 
have  1  to  do,  who  have  passed  the  l)est  years  of  my  life  in 
idle  occupations,  depraving  the  soul  ?  wluil  iiave  1  to  do, 
notwithstanding  these  unluck}'  conditions  of  the  past,  in 
order  to  requite  those  men,  who,  during  all  this  time,  have 
fed  and  clothed  me,  and  who  still  continue  to  feed  and  to 
clothe  me?" 

И"  the  question  had  been  put  thus,  after  I  had  repented, 
"  What  have  I,  so  ruined  a  man,  to  do?"  the  answer  would 
have  been  easy  :  First  of  all,  Г  must  try  to  get  my  living 
honestly, — that  is,  learn  not  to  live  upon  the  shoulders  of 
others ;  and  while  learning  this,  and  after  I  have  leai'ued  it, 
to  try  ou  every  occasion  to  be  of  use  to  men  with  my  hands 


210  WHAT  MUST   WE  BO   THEN? 

and  with  my  feet,  as  well  as  with  my  braiu  and  my  heart,  and 
with  all  of  me  that  is  wanted  by  men. 

And  therefore  I  sa\'  that  for  one  of  my  own  circle,  besides 
aл^oiding  lying  to  others  and  to  ourselves,  it  is  necessary 
moreover  to  repent,  to  lay  aside  that  pride  about  our  edu- 
cation, refinement,  and  talents,  not  considering  ourselves 
to  be  benefactors  of  the  people,  advanced  men,  who  are 
ready  to  share  our  useful  acquirements  with  the  people,  but 
to  acknowledge  ourselves  to  be  entirely  guilty,  ruined,  good- 
for-uothiug  men,  who  desire  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,  and  not 
to  be  benefactors  of  the  people,  but  to  cease  to  offend  and 
to  humiliate  them.  Very  often  good  young  people,  who  sym- 
pathize with  the  negative  part  of  my  writings,  put  to  me  the 
question,  "  AYhat  must  I  then  do?  What  have  I,  who  have 
finished  my  study  in  the  university  or  in  some  other  high 
establishment,  —  what  have  I  to  do  in  order  to  be  useful?  " 

These  young  people  ask  the  question  ;  but  in  the  depths  of 
their  souls  they  have  already  decided  that  that  education 
which  they  have  received  is  their  great  advantage,  and  that 
they  wish  to  serve  the  people  by  this  very  advantage. 

And,  therefore,  there  is  one  thing  which  they  do  not  do, — 
honestly  and  critically  examine  what  they  call  their  educa- 
tion, by  asking  themselves  whether  it  is  a  good  or  a  bad  thing. 

But  if  they  do  this,  they  will  be  unavoidably  led  to  deny 
their  education,  and  to  begin  to  learn  anew  ;  and  this  is  alone 
what  is  wanted.  Tiiey  never  will  be  able  to  answer  the 
question,  as  to  what  there  is  to  be  done,  because  they  put  it 
wrongly.  The  question  should  be  put  thus:  "How  can  I, 
a  helpless,  useless  man,  seeing  now  the  misfortune  of  hav- 
ing lost  ni}^  best  years  in  studying  the  scientific  Talmud, 
pernicious  for  soul  and  body,  how  can  I  rectify  this  mistake, 
and  learn  to  serve  men?"  But  the  question  is  always  put 
thus:  "How  can  I,  who  have  acquired  so  much  fine  in- 
formation, how  can  I  be  useful  to  men  with  this  my 
information  ?  " 

And,  therefore,  a  man  will  never  answer  the  question, 
"  What  is  to  be  done?  "  until  he  leaves  off  deceiving  himself 
and  repents.  And  repentance  is  not  dreadful,  even  as  truth 
is  not  dreadful,  but  it  is  equally  beneficent  and  fruitful  of 
good.  We  need  only  accei)t  the  whole  truth  and  fully  repent 
in  order  to  understand  that  in  life  no  one  has  any  rights  or 
privileges,  and  that  there  is  no  end  of  duties,  and  no  limits 
to  them,  and  that  the  first  and  unquestionable  duty  of  a  man 


WHAT  3IUST   WE  DO   THEN?  211 

is  to  take  a  part  in  the  struggle  with  nature  for  his  own  life, 
and  for  the  lives  of  other  men.  And  this  acknowledgment 
of  men's  dut}'  forms  the  essence  of  the  third  answer  to  the 
question,  "  What  is  to  be  done?  " 

I  have  tried  to  avoid  deceiving  myself.  I  have  endeavored 
to  extirpate  the  remainders  of  the  false  estimate  of  the 
irajjortance  of  my  education  and  talents,  and  to  repent ;  but 
before  answering  the  question,  What  is  to  be  done?  stands 
a  new  didiculty. 

There  are  so  many  things  to  be  done,  that  one  requires  to 
know  what  is  to  be  done  in  particular?  And  the  answer 
to  this  question  has  been  given  me  by  the  sincere  repentance 
of  the  evil  in  w^iich  I  have  been  living. 

Wliat  is  to  be  done?  >Yhat  is  there  exactly  to  be  done? 
evei'ybody  keeps  asking;  and  I,  too,  kept  asking  this,  while, 
under  the  influence  of  a  high  opinion  of  my  own  calling,  I 
had  not  seen  that  ni}"  first  and  unquestionable  business  is  to 
earn  my  living,  clothing,  heating,  building,  and  so  forth, 
and  in  doing  this  to  serve  others  as  well  as  myself,  because, 
since  the  world  has  existed,  the  first  and  unquestionable  duty 
of  every  man  has  been  comprised  in  this. 

In  this  one  business,  man  receives,  if  he  has  already  begun 
to  take  part  in  it,  tlie  full  satisfaction  of  all  the  bodily  and 
mental  wants  of  his  nature:  to  feed,  clothe,  take  care  of 
himself  and  of  his  family,  will  satisfy'  his  bodily  wants  ;  to 
do  the  same  for  others,  will  satisfy  his  spiritual. 

p]very  other  activity  of  man  is  only  lawful  when  these  first 
have  been  satisfied.  In  wliatever  department  a  man  thinks 
tf)  be  his  calling,  whether  in  governing  the  people,  in  protect- 
ing his  countrymen,  in  officiating  at  divine  services,  in  teach- 
ing, in  inventing  the  means  of  increasing  the  delights  of  life, 
in  discovering  the  laws  of  the  universe,  in  incorporating 
eternal  truths  in  artistic  images,  the  very  first  and  tlie  most 
unquestionable  duty  of  a  reasonable  man  will  always  consist 
in  taking  part  in  the  struggle  with  nature  for  preserving  his 
own  life  and  the  lives  of  other  men. 

This  duty  will  always  rank  lirst,  because  the  most  neces- 
sary thing  for  men  is  life  :  and  therefore,  in  order  to  protect 
and  to  teach  men,  and  to  make  their  lives  more  agreeable,  it 
is  necessary  to  keep  this  лч'гу  life  ;  while  by  not  taking  part 
iu  the  struggle,  and  by  swallowing  up  the  labor  of  others, 
lives  are  destroyed.  And  it  is  folly  to  endeavor  to  serve 
men  by  destroying  their  lives. 


212  WHAT  MUST    WE  BO   TUEN? 

Man's  cluty  to  acquire  in  the  struggle  with  nature  the 
means  of  living,  will  always  be  unquestionably  the  very  first 
of  all  duties,  because  it  is  the  law  of  life,  the  violation  of 
which  unavoidably  brings  with  it  a  punishment  by  destroying 
the  bodily  or  mental  life  of  man.  If  a  man,  living  alone, 
free  himself  from  the  duty  of  struggling  with  nature,  he  will 
at  once  be  punished  by  his  body  perishing. 

But  if  a  man  free  himself  from  this  duty  by  compelling 
other  men  to  fulfil  it  for  him,  in  ruining  their  lives,  he  will  be 
at  once  punished  by  the  destruction  of  his  reasonable  life  ; 
that  is,  the  life  which  has  a  reasonable  sense  in  it. 

I  had  been  so  perverted  by  my  antecedents,  and  this  first 
and  unquestionable  law  of  God  or  nature  is  so  hidden  in  our 
present  world,  that  the  fuliilling  of  it  had  seemed  to  me 
strange,  and  I  was  afraid  and  ashamed  of  it,  as  if  the  fulfil- 
ment, and  not  the  violation,  of  this  eternal  unquestionable  law 
were  strange,  unnatural,  and  shameful.  At  first  it  seemed  to 
me,  that,  in  order  to  fulfil  this  law,  some  sort  of  accommoda- 
tion was  necessary,  some  established  association  of  fellow- 
thinkers,  the  consent  of  the  family,  and  life  in  the  country 
(not  in  town)  :  then  I  felt  ashamed,  as  if  I  were  putting 
myself  forward  in  performing  things  so  unusual  to  our  life  as 
bodily  labor,  and  I  did  not  know  how  to  begin. 

But  I  needed  only  to  understand  that  this  was  not  some 
exclusive  activity,  which  I  had  to  invent  and  to  arrange,  l)ut 
that  it  was  merely  returning  from  a  false  condition  in  which 
I  had  been  to  a  natural  one,  merely  rectifying  that  lie  in 
which  I  had  been  living,  —  I  had  onl}'  to  acknowledge  all  this, 
in  order  that  all  the  difflculties  should  vanish. 

It  was  not  at  all  necessary  to  arrange  and  accommodate 
any  thing,  or  to  wait  for  the  consent  of  other  people,  because 
everywhere,  in  whatever  condition  I  was,  there  were  men 
who  fed,  dressed,  and  warmed  me  as  well  as  themselves  ;  and 
everj'where,  under  all  circumstances,  I  was  able  to  do  these 
for  myself  and  for  them,  if  I  had  sufficient  time  and 
strength. 

Nor  could  I  feel  a  false  shame  in  performing  matters  un- 
usual and  strange  to  me,  because,  in  not  doing  so,  I  already' 
experienced,  not  a  false,  but  a  real,  shame. 

And  having  come  to  this  acknowledgment,  and  to  the  prac- 
tical deduction  from  it,  I  had  been  fully  rewarded  for  not 
having  lieen  afraid  of  the  deductions  of  I'eason,  and  for  luiving 
gone  whither  they  led  me. 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TEEN?  213 

Having;  come  to  this  practical  conclusion,  I  was  struck  by 
the  facility  and  simplicity  of  the  solution  of  all  those  problems 
which  had  formerly  seemed  to  me  so  difficult  and  complicated. 
To  the  question,  '^  What  have  we  to  do?  "  I  received  a  very 
plain  answer:  Do  first  what  is  necossai'y  for  yourself;  ar- 
range all  you  can  do  by  yourself,  —  your  tea-urn,  stove,  water, 
and  clothes. 

To  the  question,  "  Would  not  this  seem  strange  to  those 
who  had  been  accustomed  to  do  all  this  for  me?"  it  ap- 
peared that  it  was  strange  only  during  a  week,  and  after  a 
week  it  seemed  more  strange  for  me  to  return  to  my  former 
condition. 

In  answer  to  the  question,  "  Is  it  necessary  to  organize 
this  physical  labor,  to  establish  a  society  in  a  \'illage  upon 
this  liasis?  "  it  appeared  that  it  was  not  at  all  necessary  to  do 
all  this  ;  that  if  the  labor  does  not  aim  at  rendering  idleness 
possible,  and  at  utilizing  other  men's  labor,  as  is  the  case 
with  men  who  save  up  money,  but  merely  the  satisfying  of 
necessities,  then  si»ch  labor  will  naturally  induce  people  to 
leave  towns  for  the  country,  where  this  labor  is  most  agree- 
able and  productive. 

There  was  also  no  need  to  establish  a  society,  because  a 
workingman  will  naturally  associate  Avith  other  working- 
people.  In  answer  to  the  question,  "  Would  not  this  labor 
take  up  all  my  time,  and  would  it  not  deprive  me  of  the  pos- 
sibility of  that  mental  activit}'  which  I  am  so  fond  of,  and  to 
which  I  have  become  accustomed,  and  which  in  moments  of 
self-conceit  I  consider  to  be  useful  to  others?"  the  answer  will 
be  quite  an  unexpected  one.  In  proportion  to  bodily  exercise 
the  energy  of  m}'  mental  activity  increased,  having  freed 
itself  from  all  that  was  superfluous. 

In  fact,  having  spent  eight  hours  in  physical  labor,  — 
half  a  day, — Avhich  formerly  I  used  to  spend  in  endeavor- 
ing to  struggle  with  dulness,  there  still  remained  for  me 
eight  hours,  out  of  which  in  my  circumstances  I  required  five 
for  mental  lal)or  ;  and  if  I,  a  very  prolific  writer,  who  had 
been  doing  nothing  during  forty  years  but  writing,  and  who 
had  written  three  Imndred  printed  sheets,  that  if  during  these 
fort}'  years  I  had  been  doing  ordinary  work  along  with  work- 
ing-i)eople.  then,  not  taking  into  consideration  winter  even- 
ings and  holidays,  if  I  had  been  reading  and  learning  during 
the  five  hours  a  day,  and  written  only  on  holidays  two  pages  a 
day  (and  1  have  sometimes  written  sixteen  pages  a  day),  I 


214  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

should  have  written  the  same  three  hundred  printed  sheets  in 
fourteen  years. 

A  wonderful  thing,  perhaps,  but  a  most  simple  arithmetical 
calculation  which  ever}'  boy  of  seven  years  of  age  may  do, 
and  which  I  had  never  done.  Day  and  night  have  together 
twenty-four  hours  ;  we  sleep  eight  hours ;  there  remain  six- 
teen hours.  If  any  man  labor  mentally  five  hours  a  day,  he 
will  do  a  vast  amount  of  business  ;  what  do  we,  then,  do 
during  the  remaining  eleven  hours? 

80  it  appears  that  physical  labor  not  only  does  not  exclude 
the  possibility  of  mental  activity,  but  improves  and  stimu- 
lates it. 

In  answer  to  the  question  whether  this  physical  labor  would 
deprive  me  of  many  innocent  enjoyments  proper  to  man, 
such  as  tlie  enjoN'ment  of  art,  the  acquirement  of  knowledge, 
of  social  intercourse,  and,  generally,  of  the  happiness  of  life, 
it  was  really  quite  tlie  reverse  :  the  more  intense  ray  physical 
labor  was,  the  more  it  approached  that  labor  which  is  con- 
sidered the  hardest,  that  is,  agricultural, labor,  the  more  I 
acquired  enjoyments,  knowledge,  and  the  closer  and  more 
affectionate  was  my  intercourse  with  mankind,  and  the 
more  happiness  did  4  feel  in  life. 

In  answer  to  the  (piestion  (which  I  hear  so  often  from  men 
who  are  not  quite  sincere),  "  What  result  can  there  be  from 
such  an  awfull}^  small  drop  in  the  sea?  what  is  all  ni}'  per- 
sonal physical  labor  in  comparison  with  the  sea  of  labor 
which  I  swallow  up?" 

To  this  question  I  also  received  a  very  unexpected 
answer. 

It  appeared  that  as  soon  as  I  had  made  physical  labor  the 
ordinary  condition  of  m}^  life,  then  at  once  the  greatest  part 
of  my  false  and  expensive  habits  and  wants  which  I  had, 
while  I  had  been  physically  idle,  ceased  of  themselves,  with- 
out any  endeavor  on  my  part.  To  say  nothing  of  the  habit 
of  turning  day  into  night,  and  vice  versa,  of  mj'  bedding, 
clothes,  my  conventional  cleanliness,  which  all  became  im- 
possible and  embarrassing  when  I  began  to  labor  phj'sically, 
both  the  quantity  and  the  quality  of  my  food  was  totally 
changed.  Instead  of  the  sweet,  rich,  delicate,  complicated, 
and  highly  spiced  food,  which  I  was  formerh'  fond  of.  I  now 
required  and  ol)tained  plain  food  as  the  most  agreeal)le.  — 
sour  cabbage  soup,  porridge,  black  bread,  tea  with  a  bit  of 
su^ar. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  215 

So  that,  to  say  nothing  of  the  example  of  common  work- 
ingmen  who  are  satisfied  with  little,  with  whom  I  came  into 
closer  intercourse,  m}-  very  wants  themselves  were  graduall}' 
changed  by  my  life  of  labor ;  so  that  my  drop  of  physical 
labor  in  proportion  to  m}'  growing  accustomed  to  this  labor 
and  acquiring  the  ways  of  it,  became  indeed  more  perceptible 
in  the  ocean  of  common  labor  ;  and  in  proportion  as  my  lal)or 
grew  more  fruitful,  my  demands  for  other  men's  labor  grew 
less  and  less,  and  my  life  naturally,  without  effort  or  i)riva- 
tion,  came  nearer  to  that  simple  life  of  which  I  could  not 
even  have  dreamed  without  fulfilling  the  law  of  labor. 

It  became  appai-ent  that  my  former  most  expensive  de- 
mands —  the  demands  of  vanity  and  amusement  —  were  the 
direct  result  of  an  idle  life.  With  physical  labor,  there  was 
no  room  for  vanity,  and  no  need  for  amusement,  because  my 
time  was  agreeably  occupied  ;  and  after  weariness  simple  rest 
while  drinking  tea,  or  reading  a  book,  or  conversing  with  tlie 
members  of  my  family,  was  far  more  agreeable  than  the 
theatre,  playing  at  cards,  concerts,  or  large  parties. 

In  answer  to  the  question,  '•  Would  not  tliis  unusual  lalior 
be  hurtful  to  my  health,  which  is  necessary  for  me  in  order 
that  I  may  serve  men?  "  it  appeared  that,  in  spite  of  the  posi- 
tive assurance  of  eminent  doctors  that  hard  physical  labor, 
especially  at  my  age,  might  have  the  worst  results  (and  that 
Swedish  gymnastics,  riding,  and  other  expedients  intended 
to  supply  the  natural  conditions  of  man,  would  be  far  better), 
the  harder  1  worked,  the  stronger,  sounder,  more  cheerful, 
and  kinder,  I  felt  myself. 

So  that  it  became  undoubtedly  certain  that  just  as  all  those 
inventions  of  the  human  mind,  such  as  newspapers,  theatres, 
concerts,  parties,  balls,  cards,  magazines,  novels,  are  nothing 
else  than  means  to  sustain  the  mental  life  of  men  out  of  its 
natural  condition  of  labor  for  others,  in  the  same  way 
all  the  hygienic  and  medical  inventions  of  the  human  mind 
for  the  accommodation  of  food,  drink,  dwelling,  ventilation, 
warming  of  rooms,  clothes,  medicines,  mineral  waters,  gym- 
nastics, electric  and  other  cures,  are  all  merely  means  to 
sustain  the  bodily  life  of  man  out  of  its  natural  conditions  of 
labor ;  that  all  these  are  nothing  else  than  an  establishment 
hermetically  closed,  in  which,  by  the  means  of  chemical  ap- 
paratus, the  evaporation  of  water  for  the  plants  is  arranged 
when  you  only  need  to  open  the  window,  and  do  that  which 
is  natural,  not  only  to  men  but  to  beasts  too  ;  in  other  words. 


216  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

having  absorbed  the  food,  and  thns  iiroduced  a  chaige  of 
еиогд'у,  to  discharge  it  by  muscular  hibor. 

All  the  profound  thouglits  of  hygic^ne  and  of  the  art  of 
healing  for  the  men  of  our  circle  are  like  the  efforts  of  a  me- 
chanic, who,  having  stopped  all  the  valves  of  an  overheat.-'d 
engine,  should  invent  something  to  prevent  this  engine  from 
bursting. 

When  I  had  plainl}'  understood  all  this,  it  became  to  me 
ridiculous,  that  I,  through  a  long  series  of  doubt,  research,  and 
much  thinking,  had  arrived  at  this  extraordinary  truth,  that 
if  man  has  eyes,  they  are  to  be  seen  through  ;  ears,  to  hear  by  ; 
feet  to  walk  with,  and  hands  and  back  to  work  with,  —  and 
that  if  man  will  not  use  these,  his  members,  for  what  they  are 
meant,  then  it  will  be  worse  for  him.  I  came  to  this  conclu- 
sion, that  with  us,  privileged  people,  the  same  thing  has 
happened  which  happened  to  the  horses  of  a  friend  of  mine : 
The  stew^ard,  who  was  not  fond  of  horses,  and  did  not 
understand  any  thing  about  them,  having  received  from  iiis 
master  orders  to  prepare  the  best  cobs  for  sale,  chose  the 
best  out  of  the  di'ove  of  horses,  and  put  them  into  the  stable, 
fed  them  upon  oats  ;  but  being  over-ansious,  he  trusted  them 
to  nobody,  neither  rode  them  himself,  nor  drove  nor  led  them. 

All  of  these  horses  became,  of  course,  good  for  nothing. 

The  same  has  happened  to  us  with  this  difference,  —  that 
you  cannot  deceive  horses,  and,  in  order  not  to  let  them  out, 
they  must  be  secured  ;  and  we  are  kept  in  unnatural  and 
hurtful  conditions  by  all  sorts  of  temptations,  which  fasten 
and  hold  us  as  with  chains. 

We  have  arranged  for  ourselves  a  life  which  is  against 
the  moral  and  physical  nature  of  man,  and  we  use  all  the 
powers  of  our  mind  in  order  to  assure  men  that  this  life  is 
a  real  one.  All  that  we  call  culture, — our  science  and  arts 
for  improving  the  delights  of  life,  —  all  these  are  only  meant 
to  deceive  man's  natural  requirements :  all  that  we  call 
hj^giene,  and  the  art  of  healing,  are  endeavors  to  deceive 
the  natural  physical  want  of  human  nature. 

But  these  deceits  have  their  limit,  and  we  are  come  to 
these  limits.  "  If  such  be  real  human  life,  then  it  is  better 
not  to  live  at  all,"  saj'S  the  fashionable  phildsoph}'^  of 
Schopenhauer  and  Hartman.  "  If  such  be  life,  it  is  better 
for  future  generations,  too,  not  to  live,"  says  the  indulgent 
healing  art,  and  invents  means  to  destroy  women's  fecundity. 

In  the  Bible  the  law  to  human  beings  is  expressed  thus : 


WHAT  3IUST    V,'E  no    THEN?  217 

"In  the  sweat  of  thy  face  shnlt  thou  eat  bread,"  and  "In 
sorrow  thou  shalt  bring  forth  children." 

Tlie  peasant  Bondaref,  who  wrote  an  article  about  this, 
threw  g-reat  light  upon  the  wisdom  of  this  sentence.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  of  my  life,  two  thinking  men  —  Russians  — 
have  exercised  a  great  moral  influence  over  me  :  they  have 
enriched  my  thoughts,  and  enlightened  my  contemplation  of 
the  world. 

These  men  were  neither  poets,  nor  learned  men,  nor 
preachers  :  they  were  two  remarkable  men,  both  living  peas- 
ants,—  Sntaief  and  Bondaref.  But  "  nous  avous  change 
tout  9a,"  as  says  one  of  Moliere's  personages,  talking  at 
"random  about  the  healing  art.  and  saying  that  the  liver  is 
on  the  left  side,  "  we  have  changed  all  that."  Men  need 
not  work,  — all  work  will  be  done  by  machines  ;  and  women 
need  not  bring  forth  children.  The  healing  art  will  teach 
different  means  of  avoiding  this,  and  there  are  already  too 
many  people  in  the  vvorld. 

In  the  Krapivensk}'  district, ^  there  lives  a  ragged  peasant 
Avho  during  the  war  was  a  purchaser  of  meat  for  a  commis- 
sary of  stores.  Having  beecmie  acquainted  with  this  function- 
ary, and  having  seen  his  eomfoitable  life,  he  became  mad, 
and  now  thinks  that  he,  too,  can  live  as  gentlemen  do,  without 
working.  l)eing  provided  for  b}'  the  P^mi)eror. 

This  peasant  now  calls  himself  ''  the  Most  Serene  ]\Iarshal 
Prince  Blokhin,  purveyor  of  war-stores  of  all  kinds." 

He  says  of  himself  that  he  has  gone  through  all  ranks, 
and  for  his  services  during  the  war  he  has  to  receive  from 
the  Emperor  an  unlimited  bank-account,  clothes,  uniforms, 
horses,  carriages,  tea,  servants,  and  all  kinds  of  provision. 
When  anybody  asks  him  whether  he  would  like  to  work 
a  little,  he  always  answers,  "Thanks:  the  peasants  will 
attend  to  all  that."  AVhen  we  saj'  to  him  that  the  peasants 
also  may  not  be  disposed  to  work,  he  answers,  "  Machines 
have  been  invented  to  case  the  labor  of  peasants.  They 
have  no  difficulty  in  their  business."  When  we  ask  him 
what  is  he  living  for,  he  answers,  "  To  pass  away  the  time." 

I  always  consider  this  man  as  a  mirror.  1  see  in  him 
myself  and  all  my  class.  To  pass  through  all  ranks  in 
order  to  live,  to  pass  away  the  time,  and  to  receive  an 
unlimited    bank-account,    while    peasants    attend   to   every 

'  Count  Tolstoi's  village  of  Уа*пауа  Toiyana  is  eituatud  in  this  district.— 
Am.  £d. 


218  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

thing,  aucl  find  it  easy  to  do  so,  because  of  the  invention 
of  machines. 

This  is  tlie  л^егу  form  of  the  foolish  belief  of  men  of  our 
class.  When  we  ask  лvhat  have  we  particularly  to  do,  we 
are  in  reality  asking  nothing,  but  only  asserting  —  not  so 
sincerely  indeed  as  the  Most  Serene  Mai'shal  Prince  Blokhin, 
who  liad  passed  through  all  ranks,  and  lost  his  mind  —  that 
we  do  not  wish  to  do  any  thing. 

He  who  has  come  to  his  senses  cannot  ask  this,  because 
from  one  side  all  that  he  makes  use  of  has  been  done,  and 
is  being  done,  liy  the  hands  of  men  :  on  the  other  side,  as 
soon  as  a  healthy  man  has  got  up  and  breakfasted,  he  feels 
the  inclination  to  work,  as  well  with  his  feet  as  with  his 
hands  and  brain.  In  order  to  find  work,  he  has  only  not  to 
restrain  himself  from  labor.  Only  lie  who  considers  labor 
to  be  a  shame,  like  the  lady  who  asked  her  guest  not  to 
troul)ie  hei'self  to  open  the  door,  l)ut  to  wait  till  she  called 
a  servant  to  do  it,  only  such  persons  can  ask  what  is  there 
to  be  done  in  particular. 

The  difficult}'  is  not  in  inventing  some  work,  —  every  one 
has  enough  to  do  for  himself  and  for  others,  — but  in  losing 
this  criminal  view  of  life,  that  we  eat  and  sleep  for  our  own 
pleasure,  and  in  appropriating  that  simple  and  correct  vicAv 
in  which  every  working-person  grows  up,  that  man  first  of 
all  is  a  machine  which  is  charged  with  food,  in  order  to 
earn  his  living,  and  that  therefore  it  is  shameful,  difficult, 
and  impossible  to  eat  and  not  to  work  ;  that  to  eat  and  not  to 
work  is  a  most  dangerous  state,  and  as  bad  as  incendiarism. 

It  is  necessarv  merely  to  have  this  consciousness,  and  we 
shall  find  work  will  always  be  pleasant,  and  capable  of  satis- 
f3'ing  all  the  wants  of  our  soul  and  body. 

I  picture  to  myself  the  whole  matter  thus  :  Everj'  man's 
day  is  divided  by  his  meals  into  four  parts,  or  four  stages 
as  it  is  called  by  the  peasants :  First,  before  breakfast ; 
secondl)%  from  breakfast  to  dinner  ;  thirdly,  from  dinner  to 
poldnik  (a  slight  evening  meal  between  dinner  and  supper)  ; 
and  fourthly,  from  poldnik  to  night.  The  activity  of  man 
to  which  he  is  drawn,  is  also  divided  into  four  kinds:  First, 
the  activity  of  the  muscles,  the  labor  of  the  hands,  feet, 
shoulders,  back,  —  hard  labor  by  which  one  perspires ; 
secondly,  the  activity  of  the  fingers  and  wrists,  the  activity 
of  skill  and  liandicraft ;  thirdly,  the  activity  of  the  intellect 
and  imagination  ;  fourthly,  the  activity  of  intercourse  with 
other  men. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  219 

And  the  goods  which  man  makes  use  of  may  also  be 
divided  into  four  kinds  :  First,  every  man  makes  use  of  tlie 
productions  of  hard  labor,  —  bread,  cattle.  l)uildino;s,  wells, 
bridges,  and  so  on  ;  secondly,  the  productions  of  handicraft, — 
clothes,  boots,  hardware,  and  so  on  ;  thirdly,  the  productions 
of  mental  activity,  —  science,  art ;  and  fourthly,  the  inter- 
course with  men,  acquaintanceship,  societies. 

And  I  thought  that  it  would  be  the- best  thing  so  to  arrange 
the  occupations  of  the  day  that  one  miglit  be  able  to  exercise 
all  these  four  faculties,  and  to  return  all  the  four  kinds  of 
production  of  labor,  which  one  makes  use  of;  so  tliat  the 
four  parts  of  the  day  were  devoted,  first,  to  hard  labor; 
secondly,  to  mental  labor  ;  thirdly,  to  handicraft ;  fourthl}',  to 
the  intercourse  with  men.  It  would  be  good  if  one  could  so 
arrange  his  labor ;  but  if  it  is  not  possible  to  arrange  thus, 
one  thing  is  important,  — to  acknowledge  the  duty  of  labor- 
ing, the  dut}'  of  making  a  good  use  of  each  i)art  of  the  day. 

I  thought  that  it  would  be  only  then  that  the  false  division 
of  labor  would  disappear  which  now  rules  our  society,  and  a 
just  division  would  be  established  which  should  not  interfere 
лvith  the  happiness  of  mankind. 

I,  for  instance,  have  all  my  life  been  busy  with  mental 
work.  I  had  said  to  myself  that  I  have  thus  divided  the 
lal)or  that  my  special  work  is  writing  ;  that  is,  mental  labor  : 
and  all  other  works  necessary  for  me,  1  left  to  be  done  by 
other  men,  or  rather  compelled  them  to  do  it.  But  this  ar- 
rangement, seemingly  so  convenient  for  mental  labor,  became 
most  inconvenient,  especially  for  mental  labor.  I  have  been 
writing  all  my  life,  have  accommodated  mj'  food,  sleep, 
amusements,  with  reference  to  this  special  labor,  and  besides 
this  work  I  did  nothing. 

The  results  of  which  were,  first,  that  I  had  been  narrow- 
ing the  circle  of  my  observation  and  information,  and  often 
I  had  not  any  object  to  stud}',  and  therefore,  having  had  to 
describe  the  life  of  men  (the  life  of  men  is  a  continual  prob- 
lem of  every  mental  activity),  I  felt  my  ignorance,  and  had  to 
learn  and  to  ask  about  such  things,  which  every  one  not 
occupied  with  a  special  work  knows  ;  secondly,  it  happened 
that  when  I  sat  down  to  write,  I  often  had  no  inwaid  inclina- 
tion to  write,  and  nobody  wanted  my  writing  itself,  that  is, 
my  thoughts,  but  people  merely  wanted  ui}'  name  for  profits 
in  the  magazines. 

I  made  great  efforts  to  write  what  I  could  ;  sometimes  I 


220  WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN? 

did  not  succeed  at  all ;  sometimes  succeeded  in  Avriting  some- 
thing very  bad,  and  I  felt  dissatistied  and  dull.  But  now 
since  I  have  acknowledged  the  necessity  of  i)hysical  labor  as 
well  as  hard  labor,  and  also  that  of  handicraft,  it  is  all  quite 
different :  my  time  is  occupied  humbly,  but  certainly  in  a  use- 
ful way,  and  pleasantl}'  and  instructively  for  me. 

And  therefore  I,  for  the  sake  of  my  specialty,  leave  off 
this  undoubtedly  useful  and  pleasant  occupation,  only  when  I 
feel  an  inward  want,  or  see  a  direct  demand  for  my  literary 
work.  And  this  has  improved  tlie  quality,  and  therefore  the 
usefulness  and  pleasantness,  of  my  special  labor. 

So  that  it  has  happened  that  my  occupation  with  those 
physical  works,  which  are  necessar}'  for  me  as  Avell  as  for 
every  man,  not  only  did  not  interfere  Avith  my  special  ac- 
tivity, but  was  a  necessary  condition  of  the  utility,  quality, 
and  pleasantness  of  this  activity. 

A  bird  is  so  created  that  it  is  necessary  for  it  to  fly,  to 
walk,  to  peck,  to  consider ;  and  when  it  does  all  this,  it  is 
satifled  and  happy  ;  then  it  is  a  bird.  Exactly  so  with  a  man 
when  he  walks,  turns  over  heavy  things,  lifts  them  up,  carries 
them,  works  with  his  fingers,  eyes,  ears,  tongue,  brain,  then 
on!}'  is  he  satisfied,  then  onl}'  is  he  a  man. 

A  man  who  has  come  to  recognize  his  calling  to  labor  will 
naturally  be  inclined  to  that  change  of  labor  which  is  proper 
for  him  for  the  satisfying  of  his  outward  and  inward  wants, 
and  he  will  reverse  this  order  only  when  he  feels  an  irresist- 
ible impulse  to  some  special  labor,  and  other  men  will  require 
from  him  this  labor.  The  nature  of  labor  is  such  that  the 
satisfying  of  all  men's  wants  requires  that  л-егу  alternation 
of  different  kinds  of  labor  which  renders  labor  easy  and 
pleasant. 

Only  the  erroneous  idea  that  labor  is  a  curse  could  lead 
men  to  the  freeing  themselves  from  some  kinds  of  labor,  that 
is,  to  the  seizure  of  other  men's  labor  which  requires  a  forced 
occupation  with  a  'special  labor  from  other  men  which  is 
called  nowadaj's  the  division  of  labor. 

We  have  become  so  accustomed  to  our  false  conception  of 
the  arrangement  of  labor  that  it  seems  to  us  that  for  a  boot- 
maker, a  machinist,  a  writer,  a  musician,  it  would  be  better 
to  be  freed  from  the  labor  proper  to  man.  Where  there  is 
no  violence  over  other  men's  labor,  nor  a  false  belief  in  the 
pleasures  of  idleness,  no  man  for  the  sake  of  his  special  labor 
will  free  himself  from  physical  labor  necessary  for  the  satis- 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  221 

fying  of  his  wants,  because  special  occupation  is  not  a  privi- 
lege, but  a  sacritlce  of  a  man's  inclination  for  the  sake  of  his 
brethren. 

A  boot-maker  in  a  village  having  torn  himself  from  his 
usual  pleasant  lal)or  in  the  field,  and  having  begun  his  labor 
of  mending  or  making  boots  for  his  neighbors,  deprives  him- 
self of  a  pleasant,  useful  labor  in  the  Held  for  the  sake  of 
others,  only  because  he  is  fond  of  sewing,  and  knows  that 
nobody  will  do  it  better  than  he  does,  and  that  people  will  be 
thankful  to  him. 

But  he  cannot  wish  to  deprive  himself  for  all  his  life  of 
the  pleasant  alternation  of  labor.  The  same  with  the  sta- 
rosta,  the  machinist,  the  writer,  the  learned  man. 

It  is  only  to  us  with  our  perverted  ideas,  that  it  seems, 
when  the  master  sends  his  clerk  to  be  a  peasant,  or 
government  sentences  one  of  its  ministers  to  deportation, 
that  they  are  punished  and  have  been  dealt  with  hardly. 
But  in  reality  they  have  had  a  great  good  done  to  them  ;  that 
is,  they  have  exchanged  their  heav}'  special  work  for  a  pleas- 
ant alternation  of  labor. 

In  a  natural  society  all  is  quite  different.  I  know  a  com- 
mune where  the  people  earn  their  living  themselves.  One  of 
the  members  of  this  community  was  more  educated  than  the 
rest;  and  they  required  him  to  deliver  lectures,  for  which  he 
had  to  prepare  himself  during  the  day,  in  order  to  be  able  to 
deliver  them  in  the  evening.  He  did  it  joyfull3%  feeling  that 
he  was  useful  to  others,  and  that  he  could  do  it  well.  But 
he  got  tired  of  the  exclusive  mental  labor,  and  his  health  suf- 
fered accordingly.  The  members  of  the  community  therefore 
pitied  him,  and  asked  him  to  come  again  and  labor  in  the 
field. 

For  men  who  consider  labor  to  be  the  essential  thing  and 
the  joy  of  life,  the  ground,  the  basis,  of  it  will  always  be 
the  struggle  with  nature, — not  only  agricultural  labor,  but 
also  that  of  handicraft,  mental  work,  and  intercourse  with 
men. 

The  divergence  from  one  or  many  of  these  kinds  of  labor, 
and  specialties  of  labor,  will  be  performed  only  when  a 
man  of  special  gifts,  being  fond  of  this  work,  and  knowing 
that  he  performs  it  better  than  anybody  else,  will  sacrifice 
his  own  advantage  in  order  to  fulfil  the  demands  of  others 
put  directly  to  liiin. 

JJuly  wi'di  such  a  view  of  labor  and  the  natural  division  of 


222  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

labor  resulting  from  it,  will  the  curse  disappear  which  we 
iu  our  imagination  have  put  upon  labor  ;  and  every  lal)(>r  will 
always  be  a  joy,  because  man  will  do  eitlier  an  unqucstion- 
abl}'^  useful,  pleasant,  and  easy  work,  or  will  l)e  conscious 
that  he  makes  a  sacrifice  in  performing  a  moi'e  difficult  s[)e- 
cial  labor  for  the  good  of  others. 

But  the  division  of  labor  is,  it  is  said,  more  advantageous. 
Advantageous  for  whom  ?  Is  it  more  advantageous  to  make 
as  quickly  as  possible  as  many  boots  and  cotton-prints  as 
possible?  But  who  will  make  these  boots  and  cotton-pi'ints? 
Men  who  from  generation  to  generation  have  been  making 
only  pin-heads?  How,  then,  can  it  be  more  advantageous  for 
people?  If  the  question  were  to  make  as  many  cotton-prints 
and  pins  as  possible,  it  would  be  so ;  but  the  question  is, 
how  to  make  people  happy? 

The  happiness  of  men  consists  in  life.  And  life  is  iu 
labor. 

How,  then,  can  the  necessity  of  a  painful,  oppressing  work 
be  advantageous  for  men  ?  If  the  question  were  only  for 
the  advantage  of  some  men  without  any  consideration  of  the 
welfare  of  all,  then  it  would  be  most  advantageous  for  some 
men  to  eat  others. 

The  thing  most  advantageous  for  all  men  is  that  which  I 
wish  for  myself,  —  the  greatest  welfai-e  and  the  satisfying  of 
all  my  wants,  those  of  body  as  луеИ  as  those  of  soul,  of  con- 
science, and  of  reason,  which  are  ingrafted  in  me. 

And  now,  for  myself  I  have  found,  that  for  ni}-  welfare 
and  for  the  satisfying  of  these  лvants,  I  need  only  to  be  cured 
of  the  foil}-  in  which  I,  as  well  as  the  Krapivensky  madman, 
have  lived,  which  consisted  in  the  idea  that  gentlefolk  need 
not  work,  and  that  all  must  be  done  for  them  by  others,  and 
that,  producing  nothing,  I  have  to  do  onl}^  what  is  proper  to 
man,  —  satisfy  my  own  wants. 

And  having  discovered  this,  I  became  persuaded  that  this 
labor  for  the  satisfying  of  my  own  wants,  is  divisible  into 
various  kinds  of  labor,  each  of  which  has  its  own  charm, 
and  is  not  only  not  a  burden,  but  serves  as  rest  after  some 
other, 

I  Ьал^е  divided  my  labor  into  four  parts  parallel  to  the  four 
■parts  of  the  laborer's  day's  work,  which  are  divided  by  his 
meals  ;  and  thus  I  try  to  satisfy  my  wants. 

These  are,  then,  the  answers  to  the  question,  "  What  is  to 
be  done?  "'  which  I  have  found  for  myself. 


WHAT  MUST   WE  DO    THEN?  223 

Firsts  To  avoid  deceiving  mj'self.  However  far  I  have 
gone  astray  from  that  road  of  life  which  my  reason  shows  to 
ii)e,  I  must  not  be  afraid  of  the  truth. 

/Secondly,  To  renounce  my  own  righteousness,  my  own 
advantages,  peculiarities,  distinguishing  me  from  others,  and 
to  confess  the  guilt  of  such. 

Thirdly,  To  fulfil  that  eternal,  unquestionable  law  of  man, 
—  by  laboring  with  all  my  being  to  struggle  with  nature,  to 
sustain  my  own  life,  and  the  lives  of  others. 


XXXIX. 

I  HAVE  now  finished,  having  said  all  that  concerns  m3'self ; 
but  1  cannot  restrain  my  desire  to  say  that  which  concerns 
every  one,  and  to  verify  b}'  several  considerations  my  own 
deductions. 

I  wish  to  explain  why  it  is  I  think  that  a  great  man}-  of 
my  own  class  must  arrive  where  I  myself  am,  and  I  must 
also  speak  of  Avhat  will  result  if  even  some  few  men  arrive 
there  ;  and  in  the  first  place,  if  onl}'  men  of  our  circle,  our 
caste,  will  seriously  think  the  matter  out  themselves,  the 
younger  generation,  who  seek  their  own  personal  happiness, 
will  become  afraid  of  the  ever-increasing  misery  of  lives 
which  obviously  lead  them  to  ruin ;  scrupulous  persons 
among  us  (if  they  would  examine  themselves  more  closol}') 
will  be  terrified  at  the  cruelty  and  unlawfulness  of  their  own 
lives,  and  timid  persons  will  be  frightened  at  the  danger  of 
their  mode  of  life. 

The  misery  of  our  lives!  Howeл^•er  we,  rich  men,  may  try 
to  mend  and  to  support,  with  the  assistance  of  our  science 
and  art,  this  our  false  life,  it  must  become  Aveaker  every 
day,  unhealthier,  and  more  and  more  painful :  with  each  year 
suicide,  and  the  sin  against  the  unborn  babe,  increase  ;  with 
each  3'ear  the  new  generations  of  our  class  grow  weaker, 
with  each  year  we  more  and  more  feel  the  increasing  dulness 
of  our  lives. 

It  is  obvious  that  on  this  roa.d,  with  an  increase  of  the 
comforts  and  delights  of  life,  of  cures,  artificial  teeth  and 
hair,  and  so  on,  there  can  be  no  salvation. 

Tills  truth  has  become  such  a  truism,  that  in  newspapers 
advertisements  are  printed  about  stomach  powder  for  rich 
people,  under  the  title  "■  Blessiugs  of  the  poor,"  where  they 


224  )VUAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN! 

say  that  only  poor  people  have  a  good  digestion,  and  the 
rich  need  help,  and  among  other  things  this  powder.  You 
cannot  ameliorate  this  mutter  b}'  an}'-  kind  of  amusements, 
comforts,  powders,  but  only  by  turning  over  a  new  leaf. 

Our  lives  are  in  contradiciion  to  our  consciences.  However 
much  vfe  may  try  to  justify  to  ourselves  our  treason  ngainst 
mankind,  all  our  justilication  falls  to  pieces  before  evidence  : 
around  us,  people  are  dying  from  ovei'work  and  want ;  and 
Ave  destroy  the  food,  clothes,  lalior  of  men  merely  in  order 
to  amuse  ourselves.  And  therefore  the  conscience  of  a  man 
of  our  circle,  though  he  may  have  but  a  small  remainder  of 
it  in  his  breast,  cannot  be  stifled,  and  poisons  all  these  com- 
forts and  charms  of  life  which  our  suffering  and  perishing 
brethren  procure  for  us.  But  not  only  does  every  scrupu- 
lous man  feel  this  himself,  but  he  must  feel  it  more  acutely' 
at  present,  because  the  best  part  of  art  and  science,  that 
part  in  which  there  still  remains  a  sense  of  its  high  calling, 
constantly  reminds  him  of  his  cruelty,  and  the  unlawfulness 
of  his  position. 

The  old  secure  justifications  are  all  destroyed  ;  and  the 
new  ephemeral  justifications  of  the  progress  of  science  for 
science's  sake,  and  art  for  art's  sake,  will  not  bear  the  light 
of  i)lain  common  sense. 

The  conscience  of  men  cannot  be  calmed  b}-  new  ideas : 
it  can  be  calmed  only  by  turning  over  a  new  leaf,  when 
there  will  no  longer  be  any  necessity  for  justification. 

The  danger  to  our  lives!  However  much  we  may  try  to 
hide  from  ourselves  the  plain  and  most  obvious  danger  of 
exhausting  the  patience  of  those  men  whom  we  oppress ; 
however  much  we  may  try  to  counteract  this  danger  by  all 
sorts  of  deceit,  violence  and  flattery,  — it  is  still  growing  with 
each  day,  with  each  hour,  and  it  has  long  been  threatening 
us,  but  now  it  is  so  lipe  that  we  are  scarcely  able  to  hold 
our  course  in  a  vessel  tossed  by  a  roaring  and  overflowing 
sea,  —  a  sea  ^ich  will  pi'csently  swallow  us  up  in  wrath. 

The  workman's  revolution,  л^Ь  the  terrors  of  destruction 
and  murder,  not  only  threate™fis.  but  we  have  been  already 
living  upon  its  verge  during  tRe  last  thirty  years,  and  it  is 
only  b}'  various  cunning  devices  that  we  have  been  postpon- 
ing the  crisis. 

Such  is  the  state  in  Europe  :  such  is  the  state  in  Russia, 
because  we  have  no  safety-valves.  The  classes  who  oppress 
the  people,  with  ".he  exception  of  the  Tsar,  have  no  longer 


WHAT  JSIUST    WE  DO    THEN  f  225 

in  the  eyes  of  onr  people  any  justification  ;  they  all  keep  up 
tlxMi'  position  merely  b^-  violence,  cunning,  and  expediency  ; 
but  the  hatred  towards  us  of  the  worst  representatives  of 
the  people,  and  the  contempt  of  us  from  the  best,  is  increas- 
ing with  every  hour. 

Among  the  Russian  people  during  the  last  three  or  four 
years,  a  new  word  full  of  significance  has  been  circulating  : 
b}-  this  word,  which  1  never  heard  before,  people  are  swear- 
ing in  the  streets,  and  calling  us  parasites. 

The  hatred  and  contempt  of  the  oppressed  people  are 
increasing,  and  the  physical  and  moral  strength  of  the  richer 
classes  are  decreasing :  the  deceit  which  supports  all  this 
is  wearing  out,  and  the  rich  classes  have  nothing  wherewith 
to  comfort  themselves.  To  return  to  the  old  order  of  things 
is  impossible:  one  thing  only  remains  for  those  who  are 
not  willing  to  change  the  course  of  their  lives,  and  to  turn 
over  a  new  leaf,  —  to  hope  that,  during  their  lives,  they  will 
fare  well  enough,  after  which  the  people  ma}-  do  as  they 
like.  80  think  the  blind  crowd  of  the  rich  ;  but  the  danger 
is  ever  increasing,  and  the  awful  catastrophe  is  coming  nearer 
and  nearer. 

There  are  three  reasons  which  prove  to  rich  people  the 
necessity  of  turning  over  a  new  leaf :  First,  the  desire  for 
their  own  personal  welfare  and  that  of  their  families,  which 
is  not  secured  by  the  w'ay  in  which  rich  people  are  living ; 
secondly,  the  inability  to  satisfy  the  voice  of  conscience, 
which  is  obviously  impossible  in  the  present  condition  of 
tilings  ;  and  thirdly,  the  threatening  and  constantly  increas- 
ing danger  to  life,  which  cannot  be  met  by  any  outward 
means.  All  these  together  ought  to  induce  rich  people  to 
change  their  mode  of  life.  This  change  alone  луоик!  satisfy 
the  desire  of  welfare  and  conscience,  and  would  remove  the 
danger.  And  there  is  but  one  means  of  making  such  change, 
—  to  leave  off  deceiving  ourselves,  to  repent,  ^d  to  acknowl- 
edge labor  to  be,  not  a  curse,  but  the  joyful  business  of  life. 

To  this  it  is  replied,  "  W%rt  will  come  from  the  fact  of 
my  physical  labor  during  ten,  eight,  or  five  hours,  which 
thousands  of  peasants  would  gladly  do  for  the  money  which 
I  have?" 

The  first  good  would  be,  that  you  will  l)ccome  livelier, 
healthier,  sounder,  kinder;  and  you  will  learn  that  I'onl  life 
from  which  you  have  been  hiding  yourself,  or  which  was 
hidden  from  you. 


22G  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

Tlie  second  good  will  be,  that,  if  you  have  a  conscience, 
it  will  not  only  not  suffer  as  it  suffers  now  looking  at  the 
labor  ot"  men,  the  importance  of  which  we  always,  from  our 
ignorance,  either  increase  or  diminish,  but  you  will  constantly 
experience  a  joyful  acknowledgment  that  with  each  day 
you  ai'e  more  and  more  satisfying  the  demands  of  your  con- 
science, and  are  leaving  behind  you  that  awful  state  in 
which  so  much  evil  is  accinnulated  in  our  lives  that  we  feel 
that  we  cannot  possibly  do  any  good  in  the  world  ;  you  will 
experience  the  joy  of  free  life,  with  the  possibility  of  doing 
good  to  others  ;  you  will  open  for  j'ourself  a  Avay  into  the 
regions  of  the  world  of  morality  which  has  hitherto  been 
shut  to  you. 

The  third  good  will  be  this,  that,  instead  of  constant  fear 
of  revenge  for  your  evil  deeds,  you  will  feel  that  you  are 
saving  others  from  this  revenge,  and  are  principally  saving 
the  oppressed  from  the  cruel  feeling  of  rancor  and  resent- 
ment. 

But  it  is  usuall}-  said,  that  it  would  be  ridiculous  if  we, 
men  of  our  stamp,  with  deep  philosoi)hical,  scientific,  politi- 
cal, artistic,  ecclesiastical,  social  questions  before  us,  we 
state  ministers,  senators,  academists,  professors,  artists, 
singers,  we  whose  quarter-hours  are  valued  so  highly  by  men, 
should  spend  our  time  in  doing  —  what?  Cleaning  our  boots, 
washing  our  shirts,  digging,  planting  potatoes,  or  feeding 
our  chickens  and  cows,  and  so  on,  —  in  such  business  which 
not  only  our  house-porter,  our  cook,  but  thousands  of  men 
besides  who  value  our  time,  would  be  very  glad  to  do  for  ns. 

PiUt  why  do  we  dress,  wash,  and  comb  our  hair  ourselves? 
\Vhy  do  we  walk,  hand  chairs  to  ladies,  to  our  guests,  open 
and  shut  the  door,  help  people  into  carriages,  and  perform 
hundreds  of  such  actions  which  were  formerly  performed  for 
us  b}'  our  slaves  ? 

Because  we  consider  that  such  may  be  done  b}'  ourselves  ; 
that  it  is  compatible  with  human  dignity;  that  is,  human 
duty.  The  same  holds  good'  with  piiysical  labor.  Man's 
dignity,  his  sacred  duty,  is  to  use  his  hands,  his  feet,  for  that 
purpose  for  which  they  were  given  him,  and  not  to  be  wasted 
by  disuse,  not  that  he  may  wash  and  clean  them  and  use 
them  only  for  the  purpose  of  stuffing  food  and  cigarettes 
into  his  month. 

Such  is  the  moaning  of  physical  labor  for  every  man  in 
every  society.     But  in  our  class,  with  the  divergence  from 


WHAT  MUST    WE  no    THEN?  221 

this  law  of  nature  came  the  misery  of  a  whole  circle  of  men  ; 
and  for  us,  physical  labor  receives  anotlier  meaning,  —  the 
meaning  of  a  preaching  and  a  propaganda  which  divert  the 
terrible  evil  which  threatens  mankind. 

To  say  that  for  an  educated  man,  ph^^sical  labor  is  a  use- 
less occupation,  is  the  same  as  to  say,  in  the  building  of  a 
temple,  AVhat  importance  can  there  be  iu  putting  each  stone 
exactly  iu  its  place?  Every  great  act  is  done  uuder  the 
conditions  of  imperceptibility,  modest}',  and  simplicity.  One 
can  neither  plough,  nor  feed  cattle,  nor  tiiink,  duriug  a  great 
illumination,  or  thundering  of  guns,  or  while  in  uniform. 

Iliumiuation,  the  roar  of  cannon,  music,  uniforms,  clean- 
liness, brilliancy,  Avhich  we  usually  connect  Avith  the  idea  of 
the  importance  of  any  act,  are,  on  the  conti'ar}',  tokens  of 
the  absence  of  importance  iu  the  same.  Great,  true  deeds 
are  always  simi)le  and  modest.  And  such  is  also  the 
greatest  deed  which  is  left  to  us  to  do,  —  the  solution  of 
those  awful  contradictious  in  which  we  are  living,  Aud  the 
acts  which  solve  those  contradictions  are  those  modest,  im- 
perceptible, seemingly  ridiculous  acts,  such  as  helping  our- 
selves by  physical  labor,  and,  if  possible,  helping  others 
too  :  this  is  what  we  rich  people  have  to  do.  if  we  under- 
stand the  miser}',  wrong,  and  danger  of  the  position  iu  which 
we  are  living. 

What  will  come  out  of  the  circumstance  that  I,  and  another, 
and  a  third,  and  a  tenth  man,  do  not  despise  i)hysical  labor, 
but  consider  it  necessary  for  our  happiness,  for  the  calming 
of  our  consciences,  and  for  our  safety?  This  will  come  of 
it,  —  that  one,  two,  three,  ten  men,  coming  into  coutlict  with 
no  one,  without  the  violence  either  of  the  government  or  of 
revolution,  will  solve  for  themselves  the  problem  which  is 
before  all  the  world,  and  which  has  appeared  insolvable  ;  aud 
they  will  solve  it  in  such  a  way  that  life  will  become  for  them 
a  good  thing:  their  consciences  Avill  be  calm,  and  the  evil 
which  oppresses  thern  will  cease  to  be  dreadful  to  them. 

Another  effect  will  be  this :  that  other  men,  too,  will  see 
that  the  welfare,  which  they  have  been  looking  for  every- 
where, is  quite  close  b}'  thein,  that  seemingly  insolvable  con- 
tradictions of  conscience  and  the  order  of  the  woild  are 
solved  iu  the  easiest  and  pleasantest  way,  and  that,  instead 
of  being  afraid  of  men  surrounding  them,  they  must  have 
intercourse  with  them,  and  love  them. 

The  seemingly  insolvable  economical  and  social  questions 


228  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

are  like  the  problem  of  Krilof  s  casket.  The  casket  opened 
of  itself,  without  any  tlifficulty  :  but  it  will  not  open  until 
men  do  the  very  simplest  and  most  natural  thing  ;  that  is, 
open  it.  The  seemingU'  insolvable  question  is  the  old  question 
of  utilizing  some  men's  labor  b}'  others  :  this  question,  in 
our  time,  has  found  its  expression  in  property. 

Formerly,  otiier  men's  labor  was  used  simply  by  violence, 
by  slavery  :  in  our  time,  it  is  being  done  b}-  the  means  of 
property.  In  our  time,  property  is  the  root  of  all  evil  and 
of  the  sufferings  of  men  who  possess  it,  or  are  without  it, 
and  of  all  the  remorse  of  conscience  of  those  who  misuse  it, 
and  of  the  danger  from  the  collision  between  those  who  have 
it,  and  those  who  have  it  not. 

Propert}^  is  the  root  of  all  evil ;  and,  at  the  same  time, 
propert}'  is  that  towards  which  all  the  activity  of  our  modern 
society  is  directed,  and  that  which  directs  the  activity  of  the 
world.  States  and  governments  intrigue,  make  wars,  for 
the  sake  of  propert}-,  for  the  possession  of  the  banks  of  the 
Rhine,  of  land  in  Africa,  China,  the  Balkan  Peninsula. 
Bankers,  merchants,  manufacturers,  land-owners,  labor,  use 
cunning,  torment  themselves,  torment  others,  for  the  sake  of 
property  ;  government  functionaries,  tradesmen,  landlords, 
struggle,  deceive,  oppress,  suffer,  for  the  sake  of  property  ; 
courts  of  justice  and  police  protect  property ;  pennl  servi- 
tude, prisons,  all  the  terrors  of  so-called  punishments, — 
all  is  done  for  the  sake  of  property. 

Propert}'  is  the  root  of  all  ела! ;  and  now  all  the  world  is 
busy  with  the  distribution  and  protecting  of  w^ealth. 

AYhat,  then,  is  propert}'?  Men  are  accustomed  to  think 
that  propert}'  is  something  really  belonging  to  man,  and  for 
this  reason  they  have  called  it  property.  We  speak  indis- 
criminately of  our  OW41  house  and  onr  own  land.  But  this 
is  obviously  an  error  and  a  superstition.  We  know,  and  if 
we  do  not,  it  is  easy  to  perceive,  that  property  is  only  the 
means  of  utilizing  other  men's  labor.  And  another's  labor 
can  by  no  means  belong  to  me. 

Man  has  been  always  calling  his  own  that  wdiich  is  subject 
to  his  own  will  and  joined  with  his  own  consciousness.  As 
soon  as  man  calls  his  own  something  wdiich  is  not  his  body, 
but  which  he  should  like  to  be  subject  to  his  will  as  his  body 
is.  then  he  makes  a  mistake,  and  gets  disappointment,  suffer- 
ing, and  compels  other  people  to  suffer  as  well.  Man  calls 
his  wife  his  own,  his  children,  his  slaves,  his  belongings,  his 


WUAT  MUST    IVE  DO    THEN?  229 

own  too ;  but  the  realit}'  always  sliows  him  his  error :  and  he 
must  either  get  rid  of  this  superstition,  or  suffer,  and  mulvc 
others  suffer. 

Now  we,  haA'ing  nominally  renounced  the  possessing  of 
slaves,  owing  to  money  (and  to  its  exaetment  b}'  the  govern- 
ment), claim  our  right  also  to  mone}' ;  that  is,  to  the  labor  of 
otlier  men. 

But  as  to  our  claiming  our  wives  as  our  property',  or  our 
sons,  our  slaves,  our  horses,  —  this  is  pui'e  fiction  contradicted 
by  realit}',  and  which  onh'  makes  those  suffer  who  believe  in 
it ;  because  a  wife  or  a  sou  will  never  be  so  sul^ject  to  my  will 
as  ni}'  body  is  ;  therefore  my  own  body  will  always  remain 
the  only  thing  I  can  call  my  true  property  ;  so  also  mone}',  — 
pro[)erty  Avill  never  be  real  property,  but  only  a  deception  and 
a  source  of  suffering,  and  it  is  only  my  own  body  which  will 
be  my  property,  that  which  always  obeys  me,  and  is  connected 
with  m}'  consciousness. 

It  is  only  to  us,  who  are  so  accustomed  to  call  other  things 
than  our  body  our  own,  that  such  a  wild  superstition  ma}'  ap- 
pear useful  for  us,  and  be  without  evil  results  ;  but  we  have 
only  to  reflect  upon  the  nature  of  the  matter  in  order  to  see 
how  this,  like  every  other  superstition,  brings  with  it  only 
dreadful  consequences. 

Let  us  take  tlie  most  simple  examine.  I  consider  myself 
my  own,  and  another  man  like  myself  I  consider  m}'  own  too. 
I  must  understand  how  to  cook  my  dinner :  if  I  were  free 
from  the  superstition  of  considering  another  man  as  my  prop- 
erty, I  should  have  been  taught  this  art  as  well  as  every  other 
necessary  to  my  real  property  (that  is,  my  body)  ;  but  now 
I  have  it  taught  to  my  imaginary  property,  and  the  result  is 
that  my  cook  does  not  obey  me,  does  not  wish  to  humor  me, 
and  even  runs  away  from  me,  or  dies,  and  I  remain  with  an 
unsatisfied  want,  and  have  lost  the  habit  of  learning,  and 
recognize  that  1  have  spent  as  mucli  time  in  cares  about  this 
cook  as  I  should  have  spent  in  learning  the  art  of  cooking 
myself. 

The  same  is  the  case  with  thr  property  of  buildings,  clothes, 
wares  ;  with  the  propert}'  of  the  land  ;  with  the  i)roperty  of 
money.  Every  imaginary  property  calls  forth  in  me  a  non- 
corresponding  want  whicii  cannot  always  be  gratified,  and 
deprives  me  of  the  possil)ility  of  acquiring  for  my  true  and 
sure  property  —  my  own  bod}'  —  that  information,  that  skill, 
those  habits,  improvements,  which  I  might  have  acquired. 


230  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

The  result  is  always  that  I  have  spent  (without  gain  to 
myself.  —  to  my  true  pioperty)  strength,  sometimes  my 
whole  life,  on  tliat  which  never  has  been,  and  never  could 
be,  my  property. 

I  provide  myself  with  an  imaginary  "private"  library,  a 
"private"  picture-gallery,  "private"  apartments,  clothes; 
acquire  my  "  own  "  money  in  order  to  purchase  with  it  every 
thing  I  want,  and  the  matter  stands  thus,  —  that  I,  being 
busy  al)out  this  imaginary  property,  as  if  it  were  real,  leave 
quite  out  of  sight  that  which  is  my  true  proi)erty.  upon  which 
I  ma}'  really  lal)or,  and  which  really  may  serve  me,  and 
which  always  remains  in  my  power. 

Words  have  always  a  definite  meaning  until  we  purposely 
give  them  a  false  signification. 

What  does  property  mean? 

Property  means  that  which  is  given  to  me  alone,  which 
belongs  to  me  alone,  exclusively  ;  that  with  which  I  may 
always  do  every  thing  I  like,  which  nobody  can  take  away 
from  me,  which  remains  mine  to  the  end  of  ni}'  life,  and  that 
I  ought  to  use  in  ordei-  to  increase  and  to  improve  it.  Such 
property  for  eveiy  man  is  only  himself. 

And  it  is  in  this  very  sense  that  imaginary  property  is  un- 
derstood, that  very  property  for  the  sake  of  which  (in  order 
to  make  it  impossible  for  this  imaginary  property  to  become 
a  real  one)  all  the  sufferings  of  this  world  exist,  —  wars, 
executions,  judgments,  [)risons,  luxury,  depravity,  murders, 
and  the  ruin  of  mankind. 

What,  then,  will  come  out  of  the  circumstance  that  ten  men 
plough,  hew  wood,  make  boots,  not  from  want,  but  from  the 
acknowledgment  that  man  needs  work,  and  that  the  more  he 
works,  the  better  it  will  be  for  him? 

This  will  come  out  of  it :  that  ten  men,  or  even  one  single 
man,  in  thought  and  in  deed,  will  show  men  that  this  fearful 
evil  from  which  they  are  suffering,  is  not  the  law  of  their 
destiny,  nor  the  will  of  God,  nor  any  historical  necessity,  but 
a  superstition  not  at  all  a  strong  or  overpowering  one,  but 
weak  and  null,  in  which  it  is  only  necessar}'  to  1еал'е  off  be- 
lieving, as  in  idols,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  it,  and  to  destroy'  it 
as  a  frail  cobweb  is  swejjt  away. 

]\Ien  who  begin  to  work  in  order  to  fulfil  the  pleasant  law 
of  their  lives,  who  work  for  the  fullilment  of  the  law  of  labor, 
will  free  themselves  from  the  supeistition  of  property  wliicli 
is  so  full  of  misery,  and  then  all  these  worldly  establishments 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TUENf  231 

which  exist  in  order  to  protect  ,this  imaginary  property  out- 
side of  one's  own  body,  will  become  not  only  unnecessary 
for  them,  but  burdensome  ;  and  it  will  become  plain  to  all 
that  these  institutions  are  not  necessary,  but  pernicious, 
imaginary,  and  false  conditions  of  life. 

For  a  man  wLo  considers  labor  not  a  curse,  but  a  joy,  prop- 
erty' outside  his  own  body  —  that  is.  the  right  or  possibility 
of  utilizing  other  men's  labor  —  will  be  not  only  useless,  but 
an  imi)ediment.  If  I  am  fond  of  cooking  my  dinner,  and 
accustomed  to  do  it,  then  the  fact  that  another  man  will 
do  it  for  me,  will  deprive  me  of  my  usual  business,  and 
will  not  satisfy  me  as  well  as  I  have  satislied  myself  ;  be- 
sides, the  acquirement  of  an  imaginar}-  property  will  not 
be  necessary  for  such  a  man  :  a  man  who  considers  labor 
to  be  his  ver}'  life,  fills  up  with  it  all  his  life,  and  there- 
fore requires  less  and  less  the  lal)or  of  others,  —  in  other 
words,  property'  in  order  to  fill  up  his  unoccupied  time,  and 
to  embellish  his  life. 

If  the  life  of  a  man  is  occupied  by  labor,  he  does  not 
require  many  rooms,  much  furniture,  various  fine  clothes : 
he  does  not  require  expensive  food,  carriages,  amusements. 
But  particularly  a  man  who  considers  labor  to  be  the  busi- 
ness and  the  joy  of  his  life,  will  not  seek  to  ease  his  own 
labor  by  utilizing  that  of  others. 

A  man  who  considers  life  to  consist  in  labor,  in  propor- 
tion as  he  acquires  more  skill,  craft,  and  endurance,  will  aim 
at  having  more  and  more  work  to  do,  which  should  occupy 
all  his  time.  For  such  a  man,  who  sees  the  ol)ject  of  his 
life  in  labor,  and  not  in  the  results  of  this  labor  for  the 
acquirement  of  property,  there  cannot  be  even  a  question 
about  the  instruments  of  laI)or.  Though  such  a  man  will 
always  choose  the  most  productive  instrument  of  labor, 
he  will  have  the  same  satisfaction  in  working  with  the  most 
unproductive. 

If  he  has  a  steam-plough,  he  will  plough  with  it ;  if  he 
has  not  such,  he  will  plough  with  a  horse-i)lougli ;  if  he  has 
not  this,  he  will  plough  with  the  plain  Kussian  soklni  ;  if 
he  has  not  even  this,  he  will  use  a  spade  :  and  under  any 
circumstances,  he  will  attain  his  aim  ;  that  is,  will  pass  his 
life  in  a  1а1к)г  useful  to  man,  and  therefore  he  will  have 
fullest  satisfaction  :  and  the  position  of  such  a  man,  accord- 
ing to  exterior  and  interior  circumstances,  will  l)e  happier 
than  the  condition  of  a  man  who  gives  his  life  away  to 
acquire  i)roperty. 


232  WHAT  MUST    WE   DO    TnENf 

According  to  exterior  circumstances,  he  will  never  want, 
because  men,  seeing  that  he  does  not  mind  work,  will  alwa^'s 
try  to  make  his  labor  most  productive  to  them,  as  they 
arrange  a  mill  by  running  water ;  and  in  order  that  his 
labor  might  be  more  productive,  they  will  provide  for  his 
material  existence,  which  thej'  will  never  do  for  men  who 
aim  at  acquiring  property. 

And  the  providing  for  material  wants,  is  all  that  a  man 
requires.  According  to  interior  conditions,  such  a  man  will 
be  always  happier  than  he  who  seeks  for  property,  because 
the  latter  will  never  receive  what  he  is  aiming  at,  and  the 
former  always  in  proportion  to  his  strength  :  even  the  weak, 
old,  dying  (according  to  the  proverb,  with  a  Kored  in  his 
hands),  will  receive  full  satisfaction,  and  the  love  and  sym- 
pathy of  men. 

One  of  the  consequences  of  this  will  be,  that  some  odd, 
half-insane  persons  will  plough,  make  boots,  and  so  on, 
instead  of  smoking,  playing  cards,  and  riding  about,  carry- 
ing with  them,  from  one  place  to  another,  their  dulness 
during  the  ten  hours  which  every  man  of  letters  has  at  his 
conmiand. 

Another  result  will  be,  that  those  silly  people  will  demon- 
strate in  deed,  that  that  imaginary  property  for  the  sake  of 
which  men  suffer,  torment  themselves  and  others,  is  not 
necessary  for  happiness,  and  even  impedes  it,  and  is  only 
a  superstition  ;  and  that  true  property  is  only  one's  own 
head,  hands,  feet ;  and  that,  in  order  to  utilize  this  true 
property  usefully  and  joyfully,  it  is  necessary  to  get  rid  of 
the  false  idea  of  pi'operty  outside  one's  own  body,  on  which 
we  waste  the  best  powers  of  our  life. 

Another  result  will  be,  that  these  men  will  show,  that, 
when  a  man  leaves  off  believing  in  imaginary  property, 
then  only  will  he  make  real  use  of  his  true  property,  —  his 
own  body,  which  will  yield  him  fruit  an  hundred-fold,  and 
such  happiness  of  which  we  have  no  idea  as  yet ;  and  he 
W'ill  be  a  useful,  strong,  kind  man,  луЬо  will  ever^'where 
stand  on  his  own  feet,  will  always  be  a  brother  to  every- 
bodv,  wnll  be  intelligible  to  all,  desired  by  all,  and  dear 
to  all. 

And  men,  looking  at  one,  at  ten  such,  silly  men  will 
undei-stand  what  they  have  all  to  do  in  order  to  undo  that 
dreadful  knot  in  which  they  have  all  been  tied  by  the  super- 
stition respecting  property,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  the  miser- 


WnAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN?  233 

alilo  condition  from  wliich  they  are  groaning  now,  and  from 
which  they  do  not  know  iiow  to  free  tliemselves. 

But  what  can  a  man  do  in  a  crowd  wlio  do  not  agree  with 
him  ?  There  is  no  reasoning  which  could  more  oljviousl}^ 
demonstrate  the  nnrigliteousuess  of  those  wlio  employ  it  as 
does  this.  The  boatmen  are  dragging  vessels  against  the 
stream.  Is  it  possible  that  there  could  be  found  such  a 
stu[)id  boatman  who  would  refuse  to  do  his  part  in  drag- 
ging, because  he  alone  cannot  drag  the  boat  up  against  the 
stream  ?  He  who,  besides  his  rights  of  animal  life,  —  to 
eat  and  to  sleep,  —  acknowledges  any  human  dut}',  knows 
very  well  wherein  such  duty  consists :  just  in  the  same  way 
as  a  boatman  knows  that  he  has  only  to  get  into  his  breast- 
collar,  and  to  walk  in  the  given  direction,  to  find  out  what  he 
has  to  do,  and  bow  to  do  it. 

And  so  with  the  boatmen,  and  with  all  men  who  do  any 
labor  in  common,  so  with  the  labor  of  all  mankind;  each 
man  need  only  keep  on  his  breast-collar,  and  go  in  the  given 
direction.  And  for  this  purpose  one  and  the  same  reason 
is  given  to  all  men  that  this  direction  may  always  be  the 
same. 

And  that  this  direction  is  given  to  us,  is  obvious  and  cer- 
tain from  the  lives  of  all  those  who  surround  us,  as  well  as  in 
the  conscience  of  every  man,  and  in  all  the  previous  expres- 
sions of  human  wisdom  ;  so  that  only  he  who  does  not  want 
work,  may  say  that  he  does  not  see  it. 

What  will,  then,  come  out  of  this? 

This,  that  first  one  man,  then  another,  will  drag ;  looking 
at  them,  a  third  will  join  ;  and  so  one  b}'  one  the  best  men 
will  join,  until  the  business  will  be  set  a-going,  and  will 
move  as  of  itself,  inducing  those  also  to  join  who  do  not 
yet  understand  why  and  whei'efore  it  is  being  done. 

First,  to  tlie  number  of  men  who  conscientiously  work  in 
order  to  fulfil  the  law  of  God,  will  be  added  those  who  will 
accept  half  conscientiously  and  half  upon  faith  ;  then  to  these 
a  still  greater  number  of  men.  only  upon  the  faith  in  the  fore- 
most men  ;  and  lastly  the  majority  of  people  :  and  then  it  will 
come  to  pass  that  men  will  cease  to  ruin  themselves,  and 
will  find  out  happiness. 

This  will  happen  soon  when  men  of  our  circle,  and  after 
them  all  the  great  majority  of  working-jieople.  will  no  longer 
consider  it  shameful  to  clean  sewers,  but  will  consider  it 
shameful  to  fill  them  up  in  order  that  other  men,  our  brethren, 


234  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    TEEN? 

may  carry  their  contents  away  ;  the}'  will  not  consider  it 
shcuneful  to  go  visiting  in  coumiun  boots,  but  lliey  will  con- 
sider it  shameful  to  walk  in  goloshes  by  barefooted  i)eo[)U' ; 
they  will  not  think  it  shameful  not  to  know  French,  or  about 
the  last  novel,  but  they  will  consider  it  shameful  to  eat  bread, 
and  not  to  know  how  it  is  prepared  ;  they^  will  not  consider 
it  shameful  not  to  have  a  starched  shirt  or  a  clean  dress,  but 
that  it  is  shameful  to  wear  a  clean  coat  as  a  token  of  one's 
idleness  ;  they  will  not  consider  it  shameful  to  have  dirty 
hands,  but  not  to  have  callouses  on  their  hands. 

"Within  my  memory,  still  more  striking  changes  have  taken 
place.  I  remember  that  at  table,  behind  each  chair,  a  ser- 
vant stood  with  a  plate.  JNIen  made  visits  accompanied  by 
two  footmen.  A  Cossack  bo}'  and  a  girl  stood  in  a  room  to 
give  peo[)le  their  pipes,  and  to  clean  them,  and  so  on.  Now 
this  seems  to  us  strange  and  remarkable.  But  is  it  not 
equally  strange  that  a  young  man  or  woman,  or  even  an 
elderly  man,  in  order  to  visit  a  friend,  should  order  his  horses 
to  be  harnessed,  and  that  well-fed  horses  are  onl}'  kept  for 
this  purpose?  Is  it  not  as  strange  that  one  man  lives  in  five 
rooms,  or  that  a  woman  spends  tens,  hundreds,  thousands  of 
rubles  for  her  dress  when  she  only  needs  some  flax  and  wool 
in  order  to  spin  dresses  for  herself,  and  clothes  for  her  hus- 
band and  children  ? 

Is  it  not  strange  that  men  live  doing  nothing,  riding  to  and 
fro,  smoking  and  playing,  and  that  a  battalion  of  people  are 
busy  feeding  and  warming  them  ? 

Is  it  not  strange  that  old  people  quite  gravely  talk  and 
write  in  newspapers  about  theatres,  music,  and  other  insane 
people  drive  to  look  at  musicians  or  actors? 

Is  it  not  strange  that  tens  of  thousands  of  boys  and  girls 
are  brought  up  so  as  to  make  them  unfit  for  every  work 
(they  return  home  from  school,  and  their  two  books  arc 
carried  for  them  bj'  a  servant)  ? 

There  will  soon  come  a  time,  and  it  is  already  drawing  near, 
when  it  will  be  shameful  to  dine  on  five  courses  served  by 
footmen,  and  cooked  by  an}'  but  the  masters  themselves ;  it 
will  be  shameful  not  only  to  ride  thoroughbreds  or  in  a  coach 
when  one  has  feet  to  walk  on  ;  to  wear  on  week-days  such 
dress,  shoes,  gloves,  in  which  it  is  impossible  to  work  ;  it 
will  be  shameful  to  play  on  a  piano  which  costs  one  hundred 
and  fifty  pounds,  or  e\en  ten  pounds,  while  others  woi-k  for 
one  ;   to  feed  dogs  upon  milk  and  white  bread,  and  to  burn 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  235 

lamps  and  candles  witlioiit  working  by  their  light ;  to  heat 
stoves  in  which  the  meal  is  not  cooked.  Then  it  would  be 
impossible  to  think  about  giving  openly  not  merely  one 
pound,  l)ut  six  pence,  for  a  place  in  a  concert  or  in  a  theatre. 
All  this  will  be  when  the  law  of  labor  becomes  public  opinion. 


XL. 

As  it  is  said  in  the  Bible,  tiiere  is  a  law  given  unto  man 
and  Avoman,  —  to  man,  the  law  of  labor;  to  woman,  the 
law  of  child-bearing.  Although  with  our  science,  ''  nou^ 
aeons  change  tout  fa,"  the  law  of  man  as  well  as  of  woman 
remains  as  immutable  as  the  liver  in  its  place  ;  and  the  breach 
of  it  is  as  inevitably  punished  I)}- death.  The  only  difference 
is,  that  for  man,  the  breach  of  law  is  j^unished  by  death  in 
such  a  near  future  that  it  can  almost  be  called  present ; 
but  for  woman,  the  breach  of  law  is  punished  in  a  more 
distant  future. 

A  general  breach,  by  all  men,  of  the  law,  destroys  men 
iinmetliately  :  the  breach  b}'  women  destroys  the  men  of  the 
following  generation.  The  evasion  of  the  law  b}'  a  few 
men  and  women  does  not  destroy  the  human  race,  but  de- 
prives the  offender  of  rational  human  nature. 

The  Invach  of  this  law  by  men  began  л'еагз  ago  in  the 
classes  which  could  use  violence  with  others  ;  and,  spreading 
on  its  way,  it  has  reached  our  day,  and  has  now  attained 
madness,  the  ideal  contained  in  a  breach  of  the  law,  the 
ideal  expressed  by  Prince  Blokliin,  and  shared  by  Kenan 
and  the  whole  educated  world :  work  will  be  don(>  by 
macliines,  and  men  will  be  bundles  of  nerves  enjoying  lliem- 
selvcs. 

There  has  been  scarcely  any  breach  of  the  law  b}'  women. 
It  has  only  manifested  itself  in  i)rostitution,  and  in  i)rivatc 
cases  of  crime  in  destroying  progeny.  Women  of  the 
wealthy  classes  have  fuHllled  their  law,  wliile  men  did  not 
fuliil  theirs  ;  and  therefore  women  Iiave  grown  stronger,  and 
liave  continued  to  govern,  and  will  govern,  men,  who  have 
deviated  from  their  law,  and  who,  consequently',  have  lost 
tiieir  reason.  It  is  generally  said  that  women  (the  women  of 
Paris,  especially  those  who  are  childless)  have  beconn'  so 
bewitching,  using  ;dl  the  means  of  civilization,  that  thcj-  have 
mastered  man  by  their  charms. 


236  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

This  is  not  onh'  wrong,  but  it  is  just  the  reverse  of  tlie 
truth.  It  is  not  tlie  childless  woman  who  has  mastered  man, 
but  it  is  the  motlier,  the  one  who  has  fullilled  her  duty,  while 
man  has  not  fullilled  his. 

As  to  the  woman  who  artificially  remains  childless,  and 
bewitches  man  by  her  shoulders  and  curls,  she  is  not  a 
woman,  mastering  man,  but  a  woman  corrupted  by  him, 
reduced  to  his  level,  to  the  corrupted  man,  and  who,  as  well 
as  he,  has  deviated  fi'om  her  dut3%  and  who,  as  well  as  he, 
has  lost  every  reasonal)le  seufce  of  life. 

This  mistake  produces  also  the  astounding  nonsense  which 
is  called  "  woman's  rights."  The  formula  of  these  rights 
is  as  follows  :  — 

'■'■  You  men,"  says  woman,  "  have  deviated  from  3'our  law 
of  true  labor,  and  want  us  to  carr}'  the  load  of  ours.  No  : 
if  so,  we  also,  as  well  as  you,  will  make  a  pretence  of  labor, 
as  you  do  in  banks,  ministries,  universities,  and  academies  ; 
we  wish,  as  well  as  j'ou,  b}'  the  pretence  of  division  of 
work,  to  pix)fit  by  other  people's  work,  and  to  live,  only  to 
satisfy  our  lust."  They  say  so,  and  in  deed  show  that  they 
can  make  that  pretence  of  labor,  not  at  all  worse,  but  even 
better,  than  men  do  it. 

The  so-called  question  of  woman's  rights  arose,  and  only 
could  arise,  among  men  who  had  deviated  from  the  law  of 
real  labor.  One  has  only  to  return  to  it,  and  that  question 
must  cease  to  exist.  A  woman  who  has  her  own  particular, 
inevitable  labor  will  never  claim  the  right  of  sharing  man's 
lalior,  —  in  mines,  or  in  ploughing  fields.  She  claims  a 
share  only  in  the  sham  labor  of  the  wealth}^  classes. 

The  луотап  of  our  class  was  stronger  than  man,  and  is 
now  still  stronger,  not  through  her  charms,  not  through  her 
skill  in  performing  the  same  pharisaic  similitude  of  work  as 
man,  but  because  she  has  not  stepped  outside  of  the  law  ; 
because  she  has  borne  that  true  labor  with  danger  of  life, 
with  uttermost  effort ;  true  labor,  from  which  the  man  of  the 
Avealthy  classes  has  freed  himself. 

But  within  my  memory  has  begun  also  the  deviation  from 
the  law  by  woman,  —  that  is  to  say,  her  fall ;  and  within  my 
memory,  it  has  proceeded  farther  and  farther.  A  woman 
who  has  lost  the  law,  believes  that  her  power  consists  in  the 
charms  of  her  witchery,  or  in  her  skill  at  a  pharisaic  pre- 
tence of  intellectual  labor.  But  children  hinder  the  one  and 
tiyj:  olher.     Therefore,  with  the  help  of  science,  within  my 


WHAT  MUST    IV E  DO    THEN?  237 

memory  it  has  come  to  pass  that  among  the  wealth}'  classes, 
scores  of  meaus  of  destroying  progeny  have  appeared. 
And  behold,  —  women,  mothers,  some  of  them  of  the  wealthy 
classes,  who  held  their  power  in  their  hands,  let  it  slip  away, 
о  ily  to  place  themselves  on  a  level  with  women  of  the  street. 
The  evil  has  spread  far,  and  si)reads  farther  every  day,  and 
will  soon  grasp  all  the  women  of  the  wealthy  classes  ;  and 
then  they  will  become  even  with  men,  and  together  with 
them  will  lose  every  reasonable  sense  of  life.  But  there  is 
3'et  time. 

If  only  women  wonld  understand  their  worth,  their  power, 
and  would  use  them  for  the  work  of  salvation  of  their 
husl)ands.  brothers,  and  children  !  the  salvation  of  all  men  ! 

Women,  mothers  of  the  wealth}'  classes,  the  salvation  of 
men  of  our  world  from  the  evils  fi'om  which  it  sutfers,  is  in 
your  hands  ! 

Not  those  women  who  are  occupied  by  their  figures, 
bustles,  head-dresses,  and  their  charms  for  men,  and  who, 
contrary  to  their  will,  by  oversight  and  with  despair,  beav 
children,  and  then  give  their  children  to  wet-nurses  ;  nor  yet 
those  who  go  to  different  lectures,  and  talk  of  psychometrical 
centres  and  differentiation,  and  who  also  try  to  free  them- 
selves from  bearing  children  in  order  not  to  hinder  their  folly, 
which  they  call  development,  —  but  those  women  and 
mothers  who,  having  the  power  of  freeing  themselves  from 
child-bearing,  hold  strictly  and  consciously  to  that  eternal, 
immutable  law,  knowing  that  the  weight  and  labor  of  that 
submission  is  the  aim  of  their  life.  These  women  and 
mothers  of  our  wealthy  classes  are  those  in  whose  hands, 
more  than  in  any  others,  lies  the  salvation  of  the  men  of  our 
sphere  in  life,  from  the  calamities  which  oppress  them. 

You  women  and  mothers  who  submit  consciously  to  the 
law  of  God,  you  are  the  only  ones  who,  in  our  miserable, 
mutilated  world,  which  has  lost  all  seml)lance  of  humanity, 
you  are  the  only  ones  who  know  the  whole  true  meaning  of 
life  according  to  the  law  of  God  ;  and  you  are  the  only  ones 
who,  by  your  example,  can  show  men  the  happiness  of  that 
sul)raission  to  God's  law,  of  which  they  rol)  themselves. 

You  are  the  only  ones  who  know  the  joy  and  happiness 
which  takes  possession  of  one's  whole  l)eing;  the  bliss  which 
is  the  share  of  every  man  wIk^  does  not  deviate  from  God's 
law.  You  know  the  joy  of  love  to  your  husliand,  —  a  joy 
never  ending,  never  destroyed,  like  all  other  joys,  but  form- 


238  WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN? 

ing  the  beginning  of  another  new  joy  —  love  to  your  child. 
Y(ju  are  the  only  ones,  when  you  are  simple  aud  submissive 
to  God's  hxvv,  who  know,  not  the  farcical  preteuce  of  labor, 
which  men  of  your  world  call  labor,  but  that  true  labor  which 
is  hnposed  by  God  upou  men,  and  know  the  rewards  for  it, — 
the  bliss  which  it  gives. 

You  know  it  when,  after  the  joys  of  love,  you  expect  with 
emotion,  fear,  aud  hope,  the  torturing  state  of  pregnancy, 
which  makes  you  ill  for  nine  months,  and  brings  you  to  the 
briuk  of  death  and  to  unbearable  sufferings  and  [)ains :  you 
know  the  conditions  of  true  labor,  when  with  joy  you  expect 
the  approach  and  increase  of  the  most  dreadful  sufferings, 
after  whicli  comes  the  bliss,  known  to  you  only. 

You  know  it  when,  directly  after  those  sufferings,  without 
rest,  without  interruption,  you  undertake  another  series  of 
labors  and  sufferings,  —  those  of  nursing;  for  the  sake  of 
which  you  subjugate  to  з'оиг  feeling,  and  I'euounce,  the  strong- 
est human  necessit}',  —  that  of  sleep,  wliich,  according  to  the 
saying,  is  sweeter  than  father  aud  mother.  And  for  mouths 
and  years  j'ou  do  not  sleep  two  nights  running,  and  often  you 
do  not  sleep  whole  nights  ;  walking  alone  to  and  fro,  rocking 
in  your  wearied  arms  an  ailing  baby,  whose  sufferings  tear 
your  heart.  And  when  3'ou  do  all  this,  unapproved  and  unseen 
by  an^'body,  not  expecting  any  praise  or  reward  for  it ;  when 
you  do  this,  not  as  a  great  deed,  but  as  the  laborer  of  the  gos- 
pel parable,  who  came  from  the  field,  considering  that  you  are 
onl}"  doing  3'our  dut3% — 3'ou  know  then  what  is  false,  fictitious 
labor,  —  for  human  fame  ;  and  what  is  true  labor,  —  the  fulfil- 
ment of  God's  will,  the  indication  of  which  you  feel  in  your 
heart.  Y'ou  know,  if  j'ou  are  a  true  mother,  that  not  onlj^ 
nobody  has  seen  and  praised  your  labor,  considering  that  it  is 
onl}'  what  ought  to  be,  but  even  those  for  whom  you  toiled  are 
not  only  ungrateful  to  you,  but  often  torment  and  reproach 
you.  And  with  the  next  child  you  do  the  same,  —  again  з^ои 
suffer,  again  3'ou  bear  unseen,  terrible  toil,  and  again  3'ou  do 
not  expect  апз'  reward  from  an3'bod3',  aud  feel  the  same 
satisfaction. 

If  you  are  such,  3'ou  will  not  say,  after  two  or  after  twenty 
children,  that  you  have  borne  children  enough;  as  a  fift3'- 
З^еаг-ок!  workman  will  not  say  that  he  has  worked  enough, 
when  he  still  eats  and  sleeps,  and  his  muscles  demand  work. 
If  you  are  such.  3-ой  will  not  cast  the  trouble  of  nursing  and 
care  on  a  strange  mother,  anj'  more  than  a  workman  will  give 


WUAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN?  239 

the  work  which  he  has  begun,  aud  nearly  finished,  to  another 
man,  because  in  that  work  you  put  your  life,  aud  because,  the 
more  you  have  of  that  work,  the  fuller  aud  happier  is  your 
life. 

But  when  you  are  like  this,  —  and  there  are  yet  such  women, 
happily  for  men,  — the  same  law  of  fullihneut  of  God's  will, 
by  v.hich  you  guide  your  own  life,  you  will  apph'  also  to  the 
life  of  your  husband,  of  your  children,  and  of  men  near  to 
you.  If  you  are  such,  and  if  you  know  b}^  experience  that 
only  self-denied,  unseen,  unrewarded  labor  with  danger  of 
life,  and  uttermost  etfort  for  the  life  of  others,  is  that  mission 
of  man  which  gives  satisfaction,  you  лу111  claim  the  same 
from  others,  з^и  will  encourage  your  husband  to  do  the 
same  labor,  you  will  value  and  appreciate  the  worth  of  men 
by  this  same  labor,  and  for  it  you  will  prepare  your  children. 

Ouly  tliat  mother  who  looks  on  child-bearing  as  a  dis- 
agreeal)le  accident,  and  upon  the  pleasures  of  love,  comfort, 
education,  sociability,  as  the  sense  of  life,  will  bring  up  her 
children  so  that  they  shall  have  as  many  pleasures,  and  enjoy 
tUiMU  as  nnich,  as  possible  ;  will  feed  them  luxuriously,  dress 
them  smartly,  will  artilicially  divert  them,  and  will  teach  them, 
not  that  which  will  make  them  capable  of  self-sacrificing 
man's  and  woman's  laboi-  with  danger  of  life  and  uttermost 
effort,  but  that  which  will  deliver  them  from  that  labor. 
Only  such  a  woman,  who  has  lost  the  sense  of  her  life,  will 
sympathize  with  that  false,  sham  man's  labor,  by  means  of 
which  her  husband,  freeing  himself  from  man's  dut}',  has  the 
possibility  of  profiting,  together  with  her,  by  the  labor  of 
others.  Only  such  a  woman  will  choose  a  similar  husband 
for  her  daughter,  and  value  men,  not  by  what  they  are  in 
themselves,  but  by  what  is  attaciied  to  them,  —  position, 
money,  the  art  of  profiting  by  the  labor  of  others. 

A  true  mother,  who  really  knows  God's  law,  will  prepdre 
her  children  for  the  fulfilment  of  it.  For  such  a  mother  to 
see  her  child  overfed,  delicate,  overdressed,  will  be  a  suffer- 
ing, because  all  this,  she  knows,  will  hinder  it  in  the  fuHilment 
of  God's  law,  experienced  by  herself.  Such  a  woman  will 
not  teach  that  which  will  give  her  son  or  daughter  the  possi- 
liility  of  delivering  tliemselves  from  labor,  but  that  which 
will  help  them  to  bear  the  labor  of  life. 

She  will  not  want  to  ask  what  to  teach  her  children,  or  for 
what  to  [)repare  them,  knowing  what  it  is  and  in  what  con- 
sists the  mission  of  men,  and  consequently  knowing  what 


240  WHAT  MUST    ]VE  DO    THEN? 

to  teach  her  thiklren,  aud  for  what  to  prepare  them.  Such 
a  woman  will  uot  only  discourage  her  hiisl)and  from  false, 
sham  labor,  the  only  aim  of  which  is  to  profit  b}-  other 
people's  work,  but  will  view  with  disgust  and  dread  an 
activity  that  will  sprve  as  a  double  tenii)tation  for  her  chil- 
dren, bueh  a  woman  will  not  choose  her  daughter's  husband 
according  to  the  whiteness  of  his  hands,  and  the  retinenient 
of  his  manners,  but,  knowing  thoroughly  what  is  lal)or  and 
what  deceit,  will  alwa3's  and  everywhere,  beginning  with  her 
husband,  respect  and  appreciate  men.  will  claim  from  them 
true  labor  with  waste  and  danger  of  life,  and  will  scorn  that 
false,  sham  labor  which  has  for  its  aim  the  delivering  of 
one's  self  from  true  labor. 

Such  a  mother  icill  bring  forth  and  iitirseher  chtldren  her- 
self, and.  above  all  things  else,  will  feed  and  provide  for 
them,  will  лvork  for  them,  wash  and  teach  them,  will  sleep 
and  talk  with  them.  l)ecause  she  makes  that  her  life-work. 
Only  such  a  mother  will  not  seek  for  her  children  external  secu- 
rity through  her  husband's  mone}',  or  her  children's  diplomas, 
but  she  will  exercise  in  them  the  same  capacity'  of  self-sac- 
riticing  fultilment  of  God's  will  which  she  knows  in  herself, 
tiie  capacity  for  bearing  labor  with  waste  and  danger  of  life, 
because  she  knows  that  only  in  that  lie  the  security  and  wel- 
fare of  life.  Such  a  mother  will  not  have  to  ask  others  what 
is  her  duty :  she  will  know  eveiy  thing  beforehand,  aud  will 
fear  nothing. 

If  there  can  be  doubts  for  a  man  or  for  a  childless  woman 
about  the  way  to  fuUil  God's  will,  for  a  mother  that  way 
is  firmly  and  clearly  drawn  ;  and  if  she  fulfils  it  humbly,  with 
a  simple  heart,  standing  on  the  highest  point  of  good,  which 
it  is  only  given  to  a  human  being  to  attain,  she  becomes  the 
guiding-star  for  all  men,  tending  to  the  same  good.  Only  a 
mother  before  her  death  can  say  to  Him  who  sent  her  into 
this  world,  and  to  Him  whom  she  has  served  by  bearing  and 
bringing  up  children,  beloved  by  her  more  than  herself. — 
only  she  can  peacefully  say,  after  having  served  Him  in  her 
appointed  service,  — 

"  '  Now  lettest  thou  thy  servant  depart  in  peace.'  " 

And  this  is  that  highest  perfection,  to  which,  as  to  the 
highest  good,  men  aspire. 

Such  women,  who  fulfil  their  mission,  are  those  who  reign 
over  reigning  men  ;  those  who  prepare  new  generations  of 


WHAT  MUST    WE  DO    THEN?  241 

men,  and  form  public  opinion  :  and  therefore  in  the  liands  of 
these  women  lies  the  highest  power  of  men's  salvation  from 
the  existing  and  threatening  evils  of  our  time. 

Yes,  women,  mothers,  in  your  hands,  more  than  in  those 
of  any  others,  lies  the  sah^ation  of  the  world ! 


244  WHAT  MUST   WE  DO   THEN? 

bringing  up  children  will  only  be  useful  to  mankind  when  she  not 
only  gives  birth  to  children  for  her  own  pleasure,  but  when  she 
prepares  future  servants  of  mankind  ;  лу11еп  the  education  of  those 
children  is  done  in  the  name  of  truth  and  for  the  welfare  of 
others.  —  that  is  to  say,  when  she  will  educate  her  children  in  such 
a  manner  that  they  shall  be  the  very  best  men  possible,  and  the 
very  best  laborers  for  others. 

The  ideal  woman,  in  my  opinion,  is  the  one  who,  appropriating 
the  highest  view  of  life  of  the  time  in  which  she  lives,  yet  gives 
herself  to  her  feminine  mission,  which  is  irresistibly  placed  --i  her,  — 
that  of  bringing  forth,  nursing  and  educating,  the  greatest  possible 
number  of  children,  fitted  to  work  for  people  according  to  the  view 
луЬ1сЬ  she  has  of  life. 

But  in  order  to  appropriate  the  h'.  best  view  of  life,  I  think 
there  is  no  need  of  visiting  lectures  :  ah  that  she  requires  is  to  read 
the  gospel,  and  not  to  shut  her  eyes,  ears,  and,  most  of  all,  her 
heart. 

Well,  and  if  you  ask  what  those  are  to  do  who  havg  no  children, 
who  are  not  married,  or  are  widows,  I  answer  that  those  will  do 
well  to  shar^  .лап'з  multifarious  labor.  But  one  cannot  help 
being  sorry  that  such  a  precious  tool  as  woman  is,  should  be 
bereft  of  the  possibility  of  fulfilling  the  great  vocation  which  it  is 
proper  to  her  alone  to  fulfil. 

Especially  as  every  woman,  when  she  has  finished  bearing  chil- 
dren, if  she  has  strength  left,  will  have  the  time  to  occupy  herself 
with  that  help  in  man's  labor.  AVoman's  help  in  that  labor  is  very 
precious  ;  but  it  will  always  be  a  pity  to  see  a  young  woman  fit  for 
child-bearing,  and  occupied  by  man's  labor. 

To  see  such  a  woman,  is  tlie  same  as  to  see  precious  vegetable 
soil  covered  with  stones  for  a  place  of  parade  or  for  a  walking- 
ground.  Still  more  a  pity,  because  this  earth  could  only  produce 
bread,  and  a  woman  could  produce  that  for  which  there  cannot  be 
an  /  equivalent,  higher  than  which  there  is  nothing,  —  man.  And 
en  у  she  is  able  to  do  this. 

THE    END. 


5909 


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OCT  01 1.990 

MAY  0  2  1990 

OCT  0 1 1390 


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уыч 


315 


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3  1158  00541  0021 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  954  566    6 


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